


Eye of the Storm

by Dark_K



Series: Ignite the Stars [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Angst, Arthur is basically Padmé, BAMF Stiles, Crossover with another story by Diana Prallon, Hurt Derek, Jedi, Jedi Stiles, Like the slowest ever, M/M, Merlin is Anakin, Mordred is Obi-Wan, Order 66, Slow Build, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Star Wars - Freeform, jedi order, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8189963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_K/pseuds/Dark_K
Summary: Great change is often brought about by the smallest actions - when the Jedi interfere in the Kalee-Huk conflict, none of them knew they would be starting a chain of events that would change the whole Galaxy forever.Caught in the eye of the storm, Jedi Stiles must figure out his place in his Order and in the war, even as he discovers that the Jedi Order isn't what he had always thought.





	1. The Children of Kalee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [patrese (patrese1)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrese1/gifts).



> PLEASE READ!
> 
> This story is ready - there are thirteen chapters, which will be added once a week, until it is done. There's also a sequel, of which I have now three chapters completed, and that I think I will be able to finish on NaNoWriMo. 
> 
> This has also been A LOT of work. You guys have no idea how much research and discussions and plotting and arguing and debating this has taken - and it's all worth it. I think out of everything I've ever written, this may be my favorite piece, especially because it has been such a long journey to get it all done - a journey that wouldn't have been the same without Diana_Prallon, my bff, partner in writing, the Obi-Wan to my Anakin (or the other way around, i'm never sure). I really do hope you guys like it even a tenth as much as I do, because you'll still have the time of your lives with it if that's the case.
> 
> BEFORE YOU READ:
> 
> * This is a Star Wars fusion, but things are slightly different. The universe is basically the same, and yet some things are different, but you'll get it along the story.
> 
> * This is a crossover with another series of stories (which we'll be posting in the same collection), which will follow Mordred, Merlin, Arthur and everyone else from that fandom on it - you can find it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8234542/chapters/18871372), and, dude, is it worth the read, even if you're not in the Merlin fandom.
> 
> * The artwork in it are by [Cora](https://www.behance.net/marianafelix) and [Luna](http://lunasthetic.tumblr.com/), and I love every little bit of every single drawing so much I wanna cry. I'm not even kidding.
> 
> I ALSO NEED TO ADD THAT:  
> Two years ago, patrese bid on me to write her a fic for the Sterek Campaign. I tried so MUCH to come up with something finished and good for her, but I couldn't, because it had taken me so long that it felt like I needed something EPIC to fill it up, so: patrese, this is for you. I really hope you like Star Wars, dude, otherwise, this is gonna suck. I'm so, so sorry it took me this long to write it, but I hope the 80+K will be able to compensate all the waiting. Thanks for the bid, hon <3
> 
> I think this is it. Enjoy the ride, and let's get some Jedi-ing done \o\

 

Artwork by [Cora](www.behance.net/marianafelix)

The thing about being a smart child is that, although you don’t really understand a lot of things that happen around you, some of it filters in, and you _get them_ , even if you know quite well you shouldn’t, because you are, after all, four years old, and shouldn’t have to deal with this kind of thing until you were much, much older.

Stiles is not only smart enough to understand what is happening to him, he is also smart enough to realize he _shouldn’t_ understand this at all — and right at this moment, he wishes he didn’t, because he would be much less scared if he actually believed the people who took him from his home only wanted to keep him safe.

He’s smart enough to realize that, as one of the few human families in Kalee, he had been considered an easy target. He also understands that his mother probably wouldn’t make it, unless someone went to help her really, really soon after they left his house, and he doesn’t think anyone even knows they have been attacked. He knows he and Lydia, one of the few playmates he had, will probably be sold, or killed, or something even worse, and something in his gut — something he has always had, like a tiny little voice whispering in his ear ever since he could remember — keeps whispering at him that he needs to _get away_ , he needs to run and hide, otherwise he’ll be dead or worse in a couple of days.

The thing with being four years old and understanding all of this is that, well, you are _four years old_.

You may even _know_ things, but it’s not like you can _act_ on them. His heart is beating fast, but he’s trying as hard as he can not to cry. Crying won’t really help him all that much, it certainly isn’t helping Lydia, if the way the Huks keep angrily buzzing her way is any indication — he doesn’t blame her, though. It’s not as if she’s crying like a little kid, she’s _angry_ crying, he knows her enough to understand that. He focuses on breathing, and trying to calm down. They can’t take on the five adult Huks who are minding them — well, they can’t take on even _one_ — but he kind of wishes they could squish them like the little bugs in his own house, take their antlers and pick them off their bodies, and step on their beady red eyes until they stopped blinking at him.

His mom says he has some anger issues, but he doesn’t think that’s a bad thing — they are at _war_ , after all, _someone_ has to be angry to fight for their homeland. They might be human, but they’re Kaleesh, and their General can’t win a whole war all on his own.

His dad is not a very angry person, but he’s in the army anyway. They were supposed to come home that day, which is probably why the Huk decided to raid their village then, before the soldiers were back, kidnapping little kids because they can’t take on their army.

Lydia scoots closer to him, the metal from the ship cold against his skin when she jostles him to the side. She grips his hand tightly, her green eyes big and full of tears — this is when he knows he’s not the only one who doesn’t believe the little human who went with the Huks to take them from their village meant well. Lydia is smart, every bit as smart as he is, and as she’s scared too, he knows he’s not being stupid for thinking they’re in danger. A few of the other kids have their eyes closed, probably tired, but Stiles and Lydia can’t. They are too scared to sleep.

“What do you think it’s going to happen?” she whispers at him, her hand squeezing his, and Stiles just shakes his head.

It’s not that he doesn’t have an opinion on it, it’s not even that he doesn’t know what _could_ happen, it’s that he doesn’t want to say it out loud.

The smart part of him, the one that he feels like he shouldn’t have, thinks they’ll be dead in a couple of days, or sold as slaves somewhere. He fears for Lydia more than for himself, right now. He fears for her, and Heather, and Isaac, his closest friends. Only he and Lydia are human, though, so maybe they’ll make it out alive. Heather and Isaac are Kaleesh in race as well, and Stiles has heard his dad talking about the wolfish Kaleesh being thrown into pit fights never to come back. 

He’s worried. He is so worried, it’s like this feeling doesn’t really fit it all in him, like it wants to explode out of his chest and run away in a way they can’t.

“Stiles,” Lydia hisses again, waiting for an answer, but he shakes his head again, pressing his lips together, because he doesn’t want to answer — he knows what he _wants_ to happen. He wants his dad to come and rescue them. He wants his dad to come, brave in his uniform, blasters in hand, and blow away half of the freighter’s fuselage, and throw those bugs into space. He wants them dead for hurting him and his friends, and he wants them deader for hurting his mom.

But as much as he hopes and wishes, he is also a very smart kid. And smart kids know that a whole army doesn’t just change course and comes to rescue little kids — kids are great in the eyes of adults, but in a war, Stiles has this feeling that they don’t really matter all that much.

“You think we’re going to die, don’t you?” she whispers then, and Isaac turns to look at them, his eyes snapping open in alarm, his better hearing allowing him to listen to them even if he’s on the other side of the corridor. Eyes shining in bright amber even in the darkness, Stiles can tell he’s twice as afraid now as he was before Lydia said anything, and he sighs, knowing he should say something. He isn’t the oldest here — he’s a full year younger than Lydia, and two younger than Heather and Isaac, but they listen to him, because he’s smart. His dad, sometimes, says something about a force in him, and he looks every bit as proud as he looks scared when he mentions that, so Stiles pretends he never hears it.

“No, I don’t,” he ends up replying, more for the boys’ benefit than Lydia’s, “I think General Hale will come and rescue us, because we are Kaleesh, and he won’t leave us behind.”

That seems to appease Isaac, who goes back to looking slightly less terrified, but the girl just keeps staring at him intently, and he knows she didn’t buy it.

He wouldn’t either.

Stiles looks around the cargo ship they’re in again — it’s the reason they had managed to land on Kalee in the first place. It’s not a war ship, but an old, rusted thing, not seen as a threat. His mom had said they had probably come for negotiations, but that was before Huks started pouring out, and the Yam’rii soldiers started invading houses and taking kids away from their homes.

He had been hiding with his mom in his room — she was crying and desperate, and that only made Stiles get even more scared, because his mom was so very, very brave. He had heard the sound of the Yam’rii’s pincers on their door before his mom did. The huge insect had tossed his mom aside when she tried to protect him, her head hitting the side of the wall in his room, staining it red. The insect creature had grabbed him with his pincers, yelling and kicking. The creature’s angry muttering was babble to him, but the soldier didn’t sound very happy, and he had kicked up such a fuss one of the other soldiers, this one carrying a little kid who seemed way too quiet to be okay, hit him on the head and he blacked out.

He came to inside the ship, and he was hoping they hadn’t gone too far away yet. They couldn’t reach deep space, or they would never be seen again, and Stiles wants to go home.

He wants his mom, and he wants his dad — and a part of him, a very, very small part of him, is just so _angry_ with his dad, because if hadn’t gone off to fight, if he had stayed home like his mom had asked him to, so many times, he would have been there to protect him. To protect _her_. To protect his whole village. He knows his dad is doing the right thing, though, he does. He had said, the day he was leaving, that the Huk would never attack their village, they would never bring war into the homes of women and children and the elderly.

It’s a very hard thing to learn at four years old that your father isn’t always right. That there is no guarantee you’ll always be safe. That sometimes, no one is going to come and rescue you.

Thinking like that made his stomach turn into knots, so he closes his eyes tightly, and squeezes Lydia’s hand as hard as he can. He feels Heather, big, and brave, and always willing to stand up for the smaller kids, come and sit on his other side, taking his hand into her bigger one, and squeezing it gently.

“It’ll be okay,” the bigger girl says — even though she’s not yet seven, she always talks as if she’s the one responsible for them all, “Even if they take us away, someone will come. And if they don’t, we’ll be together, right? We’ll protect each other. We don’t need any adults to help us out, we’ll be fine.”

Isaac whimpers a little when Heather talks of rescue not coming, but he too comes along, and sits huddled with them, near Lydia, grabbing her other hand and squeezing it hard, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if they let go.

Stiles swallows hard, fighting back the wave of pure despair he’s feeling — they are already trying to make up ways for things to feel better, as if they have already given up hope of rescue or help.

They won’t be together — they won’t be together at all! He’ll be alone, and scared, and without his mom or his dad or his friends, and he feels as if he can’t breathe or feel his hands, and he’s not sure if that’s because Lydia is squeezing it too tightly, or because he’s not alive anymore.

He vaguely hears Lydia calling his name in an alarmed tone, but he can’t answer it because his voice is gone, he feels like something _terrible_ is coming. He tries telling her that, but he can’t make his mouth work, and then, in a split second he doesn’t have to worry about that, because his whole world is turning into fire.


	2. The Kaleesh Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is here! I hope you all enjoy it!

War shouldn’t be a business.

Enslavement shouldn’t be a commerce.

Kalee isn’t rich on many things — too far away to be a viable point of trade, too dry and wild to produce anything of interest, and yet, it had gotten the attention of the damned Huk and their war of conquest only the stars know why, and it doesn’t calm General Hale’s spirits any knowing they are making headway in the war.

Beaten armies become desperate.

Desperation causes chaos.

And Derek isn’t particularly fond of either of those.

Battle weary and tired, his soldiers look just as he feels, but he can’t afford the luxury of seeming anything less than alert and ready to react, not in front of his men. He is fully aware that his whole army hangs on by a very thin thread. He knows he’s made a name for himself in this war, that he is considered the reason why the Kaleesh haven’t yet been doomed to a life of enslavement to the Huk, but every single one of his soldiers has a part to play in their wins — however, if they need to believe in something _more_ , something _better_ than themselves to keep up the good fight, then he won’t look weak or desperate or tired. He’ll be forever ready to fight back, no matter how long they’ve been fighting, or how much he misses his own home, just as much as every single soldier in his ship misses their own.

One, in particular, is of some concern to Derek, and he leaves the control room to check in with Stilinski — Colonel Stilinski. The man is the politic leader of Kaleela, their capitol, and the people respect him just as much as they respect Derek. His concern for the man comes from the fact that he’s not a young man anymore, he’s getting on in his years, and he left wife and son at home to fight alongside Derek, to be a voice of reason when so many of his men — Kaleesh born and bred, not some human mix like Stilinski — get lost into anger and bloodlust. He needs that, but he also knows the man needs to be around his family, to be near his people, especially after their last battle when he got wounded — minor injuries only, but Derek worries just the same.

It’s what he does as a General of the Army, as the Protector of Kalee. He worries, he fights, and he hopes for the best, which is all any of them can do.

Stilinski smiles as he approaches, looking tired as they all do, and Derek manages a nod at him, sitting by his side. The other soldiers around shuffle awkwardly, giving them space without any need of being asked to, because they do see him as their default leader even when out of the battlefield.

“How are you holding up, son?” the older man asks, and Derek shakes his head.

“I should be asking _you_ that. How’s your shoulder?”

The man rotates his shoulder as an answer — or at least tries to — grimacing in pain, and frowning a bit.

“As well as can be. I’m not as young as I once was. I am also not fully Kaleesh. Human flesh and bones aren’t quite as efficient…” he trails off with a sad smile, and Derek nods.

He wants to ask the man not to come again.

One more battle — one more battle and they’ll win this war once and for all. The Huk have no more chance of winning in combat than they do of electing a Chancellor of their own in Coruscant, and Stilinski, as he himself said, is no young man, and no Kaleesh. He doesn’t have the wolfish features, their durability and thick skin, their quick healing and enhanced senses. His mother had been Kaleesh, but his father was a human, as are his wife and his son. He is respected as a leader of the people, and Derek is in no way able to guide their city in any matter that doesn’t concern warfare.

He needs Stilinski alive, their people need him, but keeping the man away from the battlefield has proven a difficult task so far.

“You don’t need to worry, Derek,” the man starts when Derek keeps quiet for a little while, trying to figure out a way to ask him to leave the battle to the younger men without offending him, “I won’t be returning for the next campaign. Kaleela has gone long enough without a leader, and I miss my home,” he smiles tiredly, and glances at Derek, “Besides, I think I’ll be more of a hindrance and less of an asset if I go back into the field with injuries.”

“You’ve been of great value to us, sir,” Derek tells him, looking straight into the man’s pale blue eyes, unflinching, as a General should, “I am grateful for your help.”

Stilinski clasps Derek’s shoulder then, in an almost paternal gesture, smiling softly at him.

“We are the ones who should thank you, General Hale, for all that you’ve done. Soon, the Kaleesh will be free again, and it will be thanks to you. We shall never forget that.”

Derek nods solemnly at that, silent, getting up and walking away, his back straight and his steps sure — over the course of the war he has learned to accept those gestures of gratitude for what they meant: hope in their winning the war, hope they’d be at peace again, hope that they won’t lose any more soldiers to the Huk in battle. Hope that in thanking Derek, in making their hope take on a tangible, sentient form, they could make it just as real as the creature they are putting their hopes in. He is more than a General, and more than just a Kaleesh — he is a symbol in a war that has gone on long enough, and would be hard won, just as it has been hard fought, but it would be a _victory_. Their victory. And if they need General Hale to make it through this dark hour, he would lend his body and soul to his people and not mind, because they are, after all, everything he has left. He wouldn’t mind it at all.

General Hale goes back to his own chair in the control room and allows himself a few minutes to feel like _Derek_ again: tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and desperate for his home too, before they land and he becomes General Hale once more.

**X**

Derek startles awake when they touch the ground, and he can hear movement outside the control room — soldiers getting ready to go home and meet their families, lovers and children, friends and relatives. As is tradition, he puts himself together to leave the ship first, Colonel Stilinski coming to his right, and the rest of the soldiers in line behind them in order of rank.

The door opens, and the second he steps out, he knows something is wrong — something is _deadly_ wrong.

The city is eerily quiet, not a soul waiting to greet them. For a second he fears the Huk have come and wiped out their entire planet population, but there are people, he can hear commotion further away; however, it doesn’t calm him down any — he can hear crying, mourning, and screaming.

The other Kaleesh hear it too, and the humans in their midst can sense the danger as well, soldiers leaving the ship in a rush to the city center, near the government building.

His heart skips a beat when the first trace of blood hits his nose.

Running, he heads to the Medical Center, where most of the population of the city seem to have gathered.

“What’s happened?” he barks out, more roughly than he intended, eyes shining deep, electric blue with his anger — there were no soldiers left in Kalee. No reason for an attack on them.

“They took them,” the unfortunate nurse who is nearer him answers, trembling in fear when faced with his fury, “They took all the children,” she whispers again, and the nearby soldiers hear it too, rage spreading like wildfire among their ranks.

“They took the children?” he asks again, because surely he must have heard them wrong.

What kind of cowardly move is that, to take away their children, defenseless and harmless? This is no warfare, this is terror.

Moving further into the hospital, he sees their elderly and their women in the corridors, hurt and afraid, bleeding and scared, having clearly fought tooth and claw to safeguard their kids, their children and grandchildren, brothers and sisters.

What kind of monsters is he fighting? What kind of race would stoop so low as to attack children?

He feels more than sees Colonel Stilinski heading towards one of the rooms at the end of the corridor, and he wants to stop him, because he can smell it, clear as day now — wild flowers and petrichor, Stilinski’s wife’s scent.

Wild flowers, petrichor, and blood.

“Claudia…” he hears the broken whisper and closes his eyes, wishing he could turn away and leave, “Claudia, I…” the man can’t go on, and Derek follows him inside the room, taking in the scene before him, feeling as if something inside him is breaking.

The woman isn’t dead, but she’s nearly there — prolonging her life would only cause her pain and suffering. Stilinski has her hand in both of his, and he doesn’t try to stop his tears, desperate and afraid as Derek had never seen him in any battle.

The woman on the bed whispers something that her husband only catches because he’s so close to her, but Derek hears it anyway.

“ _Stiles_ …”

Stiles, a rosy cheeked boy, Stilinski’s only son, barely four years old. Claudia had clearly done everything she could trying to protect him, and now she is going to die because the Huk took away their children when their grown soldiers couldn’t take on Derek’s army.

Stilinski turns to stare at him, his eyes marred with tears, his face pale, and ten years older than just a few seconds before.

“My son,” he says, and it comes out almost like a sob, his cry joining many, many others around the hospital and on the square, in all of Kaleela.

Cold, absolute fury takes over Derek then.

This will not be his legacy. This will not be how the war ends, on the threat of death for children, and his people broken and afraid.

This will not be his legacy, he won’t allow it.

He strides out of the room, his eyes seeking someone, anyone, in good enough shape to tell him what happened, and he sees Nurse McCall looking right at him, her face spelling misery for anyone in her way.

“What happened?” he asks through gritted teeth, already leaving the Medical Center, and she follows him, talking fast.

“A freighter landed. Lahey thought it was supplies, he didn’t think to check for soldiers, and authorized the landing. About twenty Yam’rii came pouring out, but they didn’t attack straight away — they went for the learning center and the houses with small children. Little Isaac was the first one taken, Lahey’s older boy was killed in the attempt to defend him. They took them all in, a couple of humans were helping them, but they killed anyone trying to stop them,” her voice trembles then, but she doesn’t stop, and neither does Derek, “The freighter was slow and old. They knew the soldiers wouldn’t be back yet.”

“How long ago?”

“They took off less than an hour ago.”

Derek doesn’t really think — he needs to _act_ right now, not think.

Heading for the nearest Z-95 Headhunter he sees, he growls his orders at a droid nearby, and takes flight, following the trail of the freighter.

He will bring those children back, or die trying.

**X**

Information starts coming in when the droid figures out the fastest route to follow the trail of the freighter — about forty children were taken, all of them aged between three and seven.

Derek can’t even see straight, wrath clouding his vision like fog. War is a matter of armies, of adults, of soldiers: capable and willing to fight — children have no place in a war. They are not tools to be used as bargaining chips, nor are they to be used as leverage because the Huk are losing a war they started themselves.

He doesn’t have a plan of attack. He doesn’t have a strategy or an exit plan — he has to infiltrate the freighter and take the kids with him, Huk be damned, he’ll kill all of them if he has to.

His navigation droid feeds some more information on the location of the ship, and when he finally has a visual, he knows what he has to do.

It is, after all, his only option.

Freighters like the one the Huk are using to abduct his people’s children in are usually made up of at least six floors — the highest one being the control room and commanding officers’ headquarters, and the one bellow it fitting to the rest of the crew, with the cargo underneath it all — even if the children are being kept as cargo, something he won’t put past the Huk, they are, at the most, on the third floor, so it would be easier for the kidnappers to tend to them.

Taking a deep breath, he veers his Headhunter into the lowest and weakest part of the hull — there is no way they’ll authorize a boarding, let alone _his_ boarding, and he can’t exactly take forty children back to Kalee in a Z-95 Headhunter. He’ll have to hope the damage he causes with his crash won’t stop the ship from flying.

Putting up his shields, he aims the triple blasters at the hull, flying right into the midst of the explosion it causes, hoping against hope the ship’s shield will hold on and not blow him to pieces. His navigation droid is a goner, but he waits for the worst of the explosion to pass before lowering his shields again and jumping off the ship, blaster pistols in both of his hands.

General Hale heads into the upper levels of the ship, not caring about stealth — let the Huk know he’s coming, let them know he is here.

They deserve to know they’re doomed before he ends them all.

**X**

It’s Lydia’s piercing scream that makes Stiles open his eyes again and face whatever it is that is making his mind feel like a battlefield. The fire he had seen is not really in there with them, but somewhere else — the Huk soldiers advancing on them, however, are.

He doesn’t know how many had come into Kalee to take them away, but there were five of them in the compartment where they had stored the forty or so children they had abducted from Kalee. Now, there are many more, at least a dozen, he thinks, looking at the huge insects who are tittering at one another in a fast pace, as if deciding what to do.

Stiles is scared. He’s as scared as he had ever been in his short four years of life — but to be fair, he thinks that if he lives to be a hundred, he wouldn’t ever feel more scared than he is right now. One of the children, a little girl his age, starts screaming when they hear another explosion out of the storage room they’re in. Two of the soldiers tell her something angrily, but she continues to scream, afraid and desperate, like they are all feeling.

“What are they doing?” Lydia whispers tremulously at him when they see one of the soldiers grab little Emily, Corey’s sister, and raise her up when she won’t stop screaming. Corey stares at them, too afraid to move, or just not knowing what to do, and all the children seem to hold their breaths when the soldier twists her neck mercilessly, silencing her forever.

All hell seems to break loose after that — screams and snaps heard all around, covering up the explosions and sounds of blaster bolts being fired somewhere else in the ship. The Huk don’t seem to care who they grab, or why — they get the ones screaming the loudest and silence them, their little bodies falling to the floor in deafening thuds, and Stiles, Lydia, Isaac and Heather huddle together, quiet as they can be.

Heather, being the biggest, shuffles them around, until she is right in front of the other three, her back to the massacre going on behind him. Lydia’s big green eyes are locked onto Isaac’s, and he’s staring at her as if afraid she’ll disappear the second he stops looking.

The soldiers keep coming, because the children keep screaming, and Stiles wants to yell at them that they won’t be quiet when they are being killed — not now, not when _something_ , good or bad, is going on out there, something the Huk were obviously not expecting because they are nervous now, and as afraid as grown soldiers killing children can be.

They are afraid, and their response is to kill.

When he heard his father speaking of the war, Stiles had always thought that being a soldier, no matter what side you were on, was about being brave.

He can see now it’s just about being cruel.

He raises his head a little bit, knees drawn up to his chin, staring over Boyd’s shoulder, and sees the Huk soldiers seem to be arguing about something — their pincers flying wildly around, as one of them keeps gesturing towards the kids who are now quiet, not many of them left.

He doesn’t dare look around them. He glances at Lydia and Isaac, afraid in their staring contest, and at Heather, her eyes closed and her lips moving as if in a prayer, and he looks at the Huk soldiers who have stopped arguing, and are now turning slowly to the rest of the children in the room, beady eyes red and determined and cruel, and Stiles knows, he just knows, they will kill them all.

They will kill them all because rescue is coming, and they’d rather kill forty kids than suffer a defeat in their own ship.

Angry tears slid down his cheeks because this is not… This is not _fair_. They have never caused any harm to these soldiers, they have never harmed the Huk. They aren’t soldiers, they aren’t even fully _people_ yet. They are kids! They shouldn’t be here!

The sound of running comes from outside again, and the doors at the front of the room are blasted open, exploding in, bringing with the sound of explosion the head of a Huk. The soldiers turn that way, facing away from them and the bodies on the floor, running out to, Stiles thinks, defend their ship, and the four of them slowly stand up, only to duck again when a blaster shot cruises over their heads and explodes against a wall behind them.

“We need to get somewhere safe!” Heather tells them tremulously, urging her three smaller friends to the back of the room, shots flying over their heads, one child falling down a few steps behind them, the sound of another body hitting the floor coming soon after, blaster shots hitting kids even if they are not aimed at them.

Isaac is crying openly now, so afraid Stiles fears he won’t move with them, but he comes along, trembling and afraid, but moving — they crouch as much as they can and crawl under the benches, trying to get to the walls.

More shots come flying in, the angry buzzing of the soldiers is dying down, and something is yelling in fury outside — something so angry and terrifying Stiles starts to think they’ll be in trouble even if they are being rescued. He can see the legs of five Huk soldiers running back in, and they keep crawling towards the furthest wall they can see, eyes staring intently ahead, careful not to peek to the sides, because they _know_ the other children are there. They _know_ the other children are no longer alive. The four of them are the only ones left.

They hear the steps of one of the soldiers, his insect paws clicking against the floor in an ominous sound, at the same time they hear a growl outside, so terrible Lydia closes her eyes and shrieks, and Stiles covers his ears with his hands, too terrified to look up.

Isaac screaming is what makes him open his eyes again, the Huk grabbing his friend by the neck, tittering angrily at something by the door, which Stiles can’t see. The boy looks terrified, blood running down his cheek and mixing with the tears, and the soldier keeps threatening him in that infuriating language they don’t understand.

Whoever is by the door and growled earlier stops moving.

Stiles and Lydia hold their breath as Heather looks up — they are too afraid to do the same, and so they watch his expression for clues as to what could be happening. Stiles can’t help it, though — he looks at the Huk.

The soldier looks around, and Stiles can imagine what he sees — blood and death all around. There are no more Huks left, but, then again, there are no more Kaleesh either. They are the last ones, no more soldiers will come to the rescue, and the four kids right there are the last enemy this soldier will ever face. Stiles knows what the Huk is going to do a second before it happens — and so does Heather.

“No!” the older girl yells, throwing herself from behind the bench, jumping towards her best friend, and Stiles watches then, horrified, when a shot hits her — not from the Huk soldier, but from the door. A shot that would have gotten the Huk right at the chest if Heather hadn’t jumped in front of him.

The soldier twists Isaac’s neck then, right as another blaster shot hits him, both falling to the floor, and Lydia screams again, but Stiles is too shocked to do the same.

Looking up, he sees something he never, ever thought he would see: General Hale is falling to his knees on the floor, tears running down his face as he stares at all the corpses of all the kids he set out to rescue.

**X**

Derek always thought he knew how time worked, but the moment he shoots the last of the Huk soldiers, he starts doubting it, because this is just not right.

A kid isn’t supposed to have the time to jump towards her friend. A kid, a Kaleesh kid, one of his own, shouldn’t be in the way of his weapon, ever.

The first child falls down, and he shoots again, just as the thrice-damned Huk kills the boy he has by the neck, and the two of them fall to the floor in a heap.

A heap of bodies, piled high on the floor of the cargo storage. All of their children — every single one of them — dead.

He falls to his knees then, feeling despair so deep as he had never felt before. _This_ is what real failure feels like. _This_ is what losing means — forget battles, forget battlefields, forget getting killed by an enemy soldier or having your land taken over by another race. _This_ is losing.

They are all dead.

Something is moving behind a bench, but he doesn’t bother looking up — let it be one of the Huk soldiers in good enough condition to end his life now. He has failed — he has failed his people, his children, everyone he’s sworn to protect.

The shuffling of feet comes closer, and he feels a small, cold hand on his cheek, and only then does he look up. Huge brown eyes, wide in fear and amazement, stare right back at him. The boy’s eyes are the color of whiskey, not quite amber: human, then, but shining bright with unshed tears as he stares at Derek in sorrow and fear.

Derek blinks once, slowly, reopening his eyes and looking around — another child is coming towards him, bright red hair and green eyes, her little dress torn and stained with other children’s blood.

She approaches him slowly, and the boy by his side reaches out a hand towards her, which she takes with no hesitation.

“Stiles said you were coming to rescue us,” she whispers, and he turns to look at the boy properly — with him on his knees, they are almost at a height.

The kid nods at him, and Derek feels as if he’s staring into the eyes of someone so much older than the kid has the right to look — four years old and he has seen death, and loss, and despair.

It’s just not right.

“I’m taking you home,” he tells them, his voice rough as he stands, picking both children up, one in each arm.

Stiles is the first to reach out, his arms going around Derek’s neck, putting his head on the General’s shoulder, Lydia following suit, their little hands intertwined on his chest, and he swallows dryly, walking slowly towards his Headhunter. Two children will fit in there with him.

He wants it to feel like a win, but it doesn’t. As valuable as these two precious human kids are, thirty-eight stayed behind. No matter how many Huks he kills from now to the end of his life, it won’t bring any of them back.

His whole life, he thought wars were about winning.

He now sees, in wars, there are no winners at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come tell me what you think of it on Tumblr <3 ](http://darkjan.tumblr.com/)


	3. The Jedi

 

Artwork by [Luna](http://lunasthetic.tumblr.com/)

The two children don’t close their eyes for more than a few seconds the whole trip back to Kaleela. Wide-eyed and hand in hand, they keep quiet and afraid, trembling slightly the whole time. Huddled at the back of the Headhunter, Derek hears only soft breaths and sobs being quietened and swallowed down, as if they are afraid of him too, just as much as they had feared the Huk who took them.

Derek doesn’t blame them — he feels every bit as the monster he had always accused the Yam’rii of being, getting all those children killed in his haste to save them, not thinking about what the desperate soldiers would do to them when they found him in their ship.

For the rest of his life, the sight of the small bodies on the floor of the freighter will haunt him, asleep or awake. Or maybe it’ll be the bright green and luminous amber that will do it — two out of forty.

What kind of life will these two grow up to have, being barely out of their mothers’ breasts, and seeing all they had seen, suffering all they had suffered?

He chances a glance behind him, looking at the two of them, and Stiles’s eyes catch his, staring unblinkingly, and it’s not fear he sees there — it’s gratitude. Stiles is staring at him as if he’s afraid Derek will disappear, as if the kid thinks he actually did something good by causing the death of thirty eight of his friends — as if by bringing the two of them back home, his actions would be justified.

Lydia sniffs then, and Stiles looks back at her, their hands still entwined, and Derek focuses back on his flight.

He hadn’t needed a reason to start fighting against the Huk when war had been declared on them, he hadn’t needed any kind of incentive to rise through the ranks as fast as he had, and he hadn’t needed a reason to accept the title of General at only twenty-one when it was offered to him — he hadn’t needed anything more than knowing he was Kaleesh, all they had was their homeland, and he would fight for it.

Now, though, now he has a reason to win this war once and for all — those two children, hand in hand, brave even when close to death, resilient as he had seen few adults be.

He would fight for them, and for all the others who wouldn’t return.

He would help his land, by whatever means necessary, so that no other children from Kalee would suffer as these two have suffered.

**X**

Stiles is having a hard time _understanding_ what he’s feeling, because it’s _too much_. He’s afraid, and he’s sad, and he’s angry, and he wants to cling to General Hale and never let him go, because right at this moment, he feels like the _only_ safe place to exist in the universe is by his side. Staring at the back of the man’s head when he’s flying them back home is what’s keeping him from crying, and from yelling, and… so many other things he doesn’t quite understand, but knows aren’t good.

Suddenly, in the space of a couple of hours, no more than that, the whole world has changed, nothing is like it was this morning — he sees it now: they live in a dangerous place. So very, very dangerous.

Lydia makes a tiny sound of complaint and he loosens his grip on her hand, having squeezed too tight in his desperation to _feel_ her by his side.

All of their friends are dead. They are the only ones left, and he can’t quite _grasp_ that.

He thinks of his mom, and then stops the thought in its tracks — he can’t. He just _can’t_ think of his mother right now, because every time he tries, his head feels like it’s going to explode, and he gets this funny feeling in his heart, as if it’s being squeezing through a very thin tube. He closes his eyes so tightly he can almost see stars imprinted on his lids, trying to breathe, because it’s suddenly becoming more and more difficult to do so.

General Hale glances at them and his whole face seems to close off, but not in a mean way — he looks as if he’s hurting, and Stiles has a hard time believing that.

Nothing hurts their General.

It’s impossible to hurt such a hero.

Taking a deep breath to gather what little bravery he has left, he squeezes Lydia’s hand again, before licking his lips and speaking out.

“You know what happened to my mom?” he asks quietly, his voice strange even to his own ears, as if a little part of him isn’t there.

The General startles a bit, clearly not having expected him to talk, and the man glances at them again, his eyes moving fast, like they’re trying to get away before he has to answer it.

“She was with your father,” General Hale answers, and Stiles stares at him, blinking slowly, and trying not to get angry. That is what adults do when they don’t want to say something — they answer things in a way that is not an answer. His dad does this all the time when he’s not off with the Army; his mom does it too, and to her, he replies with a cheeky “That’s not an answer”, and she laughs and laughs, and calls him her little genius, and twirls him around the house until he forgets what he had asked in the first place.

He can’t do that to General Hale, because he’s not his mom. No one _else_ is his mom, and if she’s gone, and his dad goes back to fight, who’ll take care of him? Who’ll be with him? Is he going to be all alone now?

Swallowing hard, he closes his eyes again, fighting back tears as Lydia pats his head.

He doesn’t want to be alone forever. He wants his mom, more than anything right now, but he has a feeling, that little spark that keeps telling him things before they happen, that little feeling like he’s taking a peek into the future, tells him he won’t see her again. Not like it was before.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, Stiles,” General Hale’s voice is much softer inside the ship. He had only ever heard him talk to the troops, it’s different now. He talks as if he’s afraid he’ll break Lydia and Stiles to pieces with his voice alone, “She’s with your father, she’ll be fine.”

Stiles doesn’t believe him, and one look at Lydia tells him she doesn’t believe him either, but neither of them say anything. Calling the man who’s taking them home a liar isn’t really something they want to do.

They keep silent the rest of the trip, his eyes feeling heavier and heavier, and Lydia leans against him, eyes closed, and he follows her into sleep. Exhaustion — physical and emotional — taking them over.

When he wakes up again, they’re in Kaleela. There are so many _people_ around, Lydia’s eyes are big as saucers when she looks out the ship, and Stiles is just as scared.

He only wants his dad and his mom, and not all of these _people_.

General Hale stares at them for a moment before he gets out of the ship, and reaches inside to pick Lydia up and set her on the ground. He reaches in again, and takes Stiles, who has a vice-like grip around the man’s neck again. The General kneels, picking the little girl up too, and they entwine their hands around his chest like they did on the Huk ship.

 

Artwork by [Luna](http://lunasthetic.tumblr.com/)

Stiles hides his face in General Hale’s neck, but peeks a bit when the crowd around the ship grows silent as they pass by. The people part ways for them, a cry starting to spread around them when the Kaleesh realize this is all that’s left: they are the only children to come back to them. A scream, loud, and broken, and full of despair rings through the city, and it spreads and spreads, and General Hale seems to want to walk faster, but he doesn’t. He is not running away from his people’s pain.

At the end of the landing strip, there are five strange people Stiles has never seen before, and he wants to hide again, but he doesn’t, curiosity getting the best of him. General Hale freezes when he sees them too, before picking up his pace, passing by the strangers in a hurry, towards the Medical Centre.

“General Hale,” one of them starts, a dark skinned man with a shaved head, in dark brown robes, but General Hale doesn’t stop.

“I’m taking these children to their parents. We will talk when I am done.”

Stiles could swear General Hale’s voice could have cut glass by then, and he looks back at the strangers — a dark haired boy in brown robes gives him half a wave, which Stiles answers in kind.

Maybe these strangers are here to get the Huk away from them once and for all.

He can only hope.

**X**

When Derek sees the Jedi, his blood runs cold.

He won’t claim to be a genius, or gifted in any other thing apart from warfare — he is good at it, it’s what he excels at, and seeing the Jedi here, seeing Master _Deaton_ on his planet, after the stunt the Huk pulled with the children, he _knows_ they are doomed.

This won’t be a matter of battles anymore: it has turned into politics, and Kalee will never have the upper hand on that field, simply because they have nothing of interest to anyone. The biggest export they have on their planet is _mercenaries_ , for stars’ sake.

So he swallows dryly and he keeps on walking, because he has caused enough damage for one day to stop for _negotiations_ with the Jedi carrying two hurt children in his arms. He doesn’t stop for anyone, the kids warm against his chest, taking comfort wherever they can, and, if he is honest with himself, he takes comfort in them too. _They_ are why he is doing what he’s doing — fighting all these battles and facing all these dangers. So that the next generation of Kaleesh won’t have to suffer as he has suffered his whole life.

The next generation of Kaleesh, which is now the two broken, scared children in his arms.

When he finally gets to the Medical Center, Melissa McCall is the first one to come rushing forward, taking Lydia from him. She tries to get Stiles too, but the child only clings harder to his neck, and the nurse blinks away tears, caressing the top of the girl’s hair.

“Colonel Stilinski is in Claudia’s room,” she tells him, voice quiet and trying for professional, but missing by eons with the way it rings of deep sadness, “Do I need to check him for injuries?” she asks, nodding towards Stiles, but the kid is already shaking his head against Derek’s neck.

“I want my mom,” he says then, voice small and wobbling with tears, and Derek shakes his head at her, starting to walk towards the same room he had left hours before.

If Claudia is still in a room, then maybe there is a chance.

Maybe it won’t be all bad.

Maybe this broken little boy will have a full family still.

He opens the door carefully, minding the noise he makes, and one look inside tells him that hope is as futile as it has always been for him — Claudia Stilinski is lying very, very still on the bed. Machines are hooked up to her chest and nose, and her heartbeat can be heard in the room, seeming to go slower and slower with every beep from the machine.

Colonel Stilinski is sitting by the bed, one of his wife’s hands in his, and he’s looking at her as if by sheer force of will he’ll make her okay again.

“Mom…” Stiles whispers, wriggling in his arms to get down, and Derek sets the boy on the bed, beside his mother. The kid puts his arms around her neck, hugging her close, tears falling earnestly now that he’s home — shock and fear and despair all coming out now that he knows he’s safe, and Stilinski gets up then, his free hand resting at the back of his son’s neck, the boy lying over his mother’s unmoving body, and Derek turns his back, intent on leaving such a private moment.

“General Hale,” Stilinski calls, his voice thick with tears. Derek turns then, looking at the man, who nods at him, “Thank you,” he whispers, grip tightening on his son, and Derek nods back, leaving.

He closes the door behind him, and takes a moment to close his eyes, asking for wisdom and patience to deal with whatever it is the Jedi brought with them. When he opens them again, Melissa is in front of him, staring with the same broken look he feels will be on every face of every Kaleesh for years to come.

“Lydia is resting,” she tells him without waiting for him to ask, “Her parents were already waiting here, she’ll be fine.” He nods in answer, and she goes on, “I should check on Stiles…” she trails off, as Derek shakes his head at her.

“He is not injured. Not physically — a few scrapes and cuts, nothing that can’t wait,” he stops talking, turning to look through the small window on the door, and he sees the boy still clinging to his mother’s body, his father trying so very hard not to cry, “He needs this more than he needs mending.”

Melissa nods, both staring into the room, aware that things are about to get a lot worse.

“What is her condition?” he asks quietly, knowing they can’t hear him in the room, but careful of it anyway.

“She won’t wake up again,” her voice is gentle, but firm, and Derek turns to look at her, waiting for the rest of it, “The machines are keeping her alive, but her mind is too damaged now. Jon wanted to wait for Stiles to come back, he said, but I think he can’t let her go quite yet,” Melissa’s voice is sad, but also final. She deals with death every day, it’s as much a part of her life as it is Derek’s.

“Thank you,” he tells her, staring straight ahead, “For dealing with Lydia’s parents, and the fallout of the attack.”

Melissa puts a hand on his shoulder then, her face sympathetic and sad.

“And thank _you_. For bringing them back.”

He nods and leaves without another word.

He doesn’t say he only brought two of them back, he doesn’t say he failed, he doesn’t say she shouldn’t be thanking him, but blaming him — because Melissa has a way of seeing the best in people, and never giving up. She didn’t give up when her mercenary husband left her, or when her child died a few weeks after that, not able to breathe the dry air of their planet properly when the hospital didn’t have the necessary equipment to help him. She didn’t give up when all she could do was take care of the children of other people, and then all the other people themselves.

She wouldn’t give up on him, on hoping he did the right thing, on telling him he is not to blame, and maybe, eventually, he would have started believing her, and that is a luxury he cannot allow himself to have.

He doomed thirty-eight children to death, and now he has to pay the price, in whatever form it comes.

**X**

Once, years ago, the Jedi were considered heroes by every sentient being on the Galaxy.

Brave and special and smart, they were the keepers of the peace, the wise beings guiding the Senate and helping them make their home a better place for everyone.

That time, however, is gone.

The Jedi still have power, but doubt is ever growing on how wise they really are, how selfless. People start wondering if what they do is for the benefit of the Galaxy or for themselves, for their own status — and while this doubt would still take years to grow roots in Coruscant or any of the Inner planets, at the Outer Rim it’s a truth universally acknowledged: the Jedi do what the Senate tells them, and what the Senate decides doesn’t always hold to the concept of Justice and Fairness as much as it should. Politicians, sometimes, (most times, to be honest), make decisions based on what would be better for Trade and Commerce. They have to think of the long run, and not the immediate safety and fairness to a people who lived so far away most Coruscanti don’t even know they exist.

The Huk Wars had only come to the knowledge of the Senate because of how much it was costing the Huks. Ever expanding and greedy, the Yam’rii decided to try and enslave a smaller planet, with no significant trade or army, and in doing that, had awoken one of the best warriors anyone had ever learned of. General Hale had won every battle, fought back every tactic, taken back everything the Yam’rii kept trying to steal from his people — and the Huk, richer and better equipped, with more money and more soldiers, started to lose a war they had thought would be an easy conquest.

At any other time in the past, when the people of Huk decided to come and ask for Jedi interference in that war, they would have favored the Kaleesh — the brave people who fought back — but now things were different, and fairness and justice couldn’t always be the only measures with which the Council made their decisions. They have to think of the Senate, which they have sworn to protect and obey. They have to think of the commerce, and of the economy, and of the other people who could be dragged into this war too in case they don’t end it soon — and that is why they had supported the Senate’s rule in favor of the Yam’rii.

Master Deaton doesn’t like it any more than the other Jedi with him do, but sometimes even the Jedi have to do what is right for the bigger picture instead of what’s fair to one planet.

Master Nimueh looks like she wants to rip someone’s eyes out, staring straight ahead, as they wait on the temple-like structure they were led to after General Hale had come back with two children.

Two children, out of the forty who had been taken, and one more left for dead, for trying to defend his brother.

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth knowing that he will be defending the people who did that.

Looking to his right at the table they’re sitting, he sees Gaius calmly staring out the windows, passive for anyone looking, but Deaton has known him for long enough to see the storm brewing under his seeming apathy. The padawans who came with them, Morgana and Mordred, are eerily quiet, and he knows they don’t like the situation any more than their Masters.

It would clearly be up to him to keep their mission as short as possible, and play the villain in the eyes of the people. Although Nimueh is a Guardian like him, he has a feeling she wouldn’t exactly be enforcing the ruling established by the council in this situation, and Gaius is here for negotiation, not to end the war as had been dictated by the Senate.

What they have to do in Kalee won’t endear them to any of their people, but it has to be done.

Sometimes he wonders about his Order, and remembers the prophecy long told by Masters older than time. He sometimes remembers that, and reflects that the chosen one better come soon, or they would find no Order to save, and no balance to restore.

General Hale enters the meeting room they’re in, about two standard hours after they met him at the landing strip, changed into a clean uniform, looking ready for battle, and Deaton has to give it to him — the man seems to fill up every space in the room, his presence remarkable and strong even when there are five Jedi with him.

The General doesn’t say anything when he enters, staring at them from the top of the stairs for a few seconds, and Deaton takes the time to look more closely at the Kaleesh who’s made a name for himself as the most competent General from the Outer Rim. As a native Kaleesh, he has wolfish features, his hair thick and wild, in the darkest shade of black, his skin pale underneath the fur that runs near his hairline and down the back of his neck. His ears are slightly pointed, and his eyes shine electric blue from time to time, belying his anger. Wearing the brown leather uniform the Kaleesh favor, he looks wild and angry, and the Jedi can see why he is so feared in the battlefield. He is taller than Deaton himself, but that is not why his presence fills up more space, stance cold and hard. The Jedi can see him closing his hands into fists and opening them up again, claws coming and going in a nervous habit, or maybe just to try and contain his anger.

“General Hale,” Gaius starts, as he is the Consular, and thus the responsible for the negotiations — as short lived as they would be.

Hale merely looks at him and comes down the four steps separating him from the table, stationing himself at the head of it, but not sitting down. Most buildings in Kalee look like old temples, in sand and orange tones, and this one isn’t any different — the rough stone on the floor, tall walls made out of polished rock, and the open windows overlooking the city center seem to give off a yellow glow with the setting sun behind them.

When it becomes clear that the man won’t talk, Master Gaius exchanges a look with Deaton, but keeps going.

“We are here to negotiate the terms of a cease fire with the Yam’rii race of the planet Huk.”

Hale still doesn’t talk, just staring at them for a while more.

“We were told we’d be talking to Chief Stilinski,” Gaius goes on, and even he, in his infinite patience, seems to be losing a bit of his calm with the general’s silence.

The Kaleesh looks at each one of them separately, then, staring intently at Deaton, Gaius, Mordred and Morgana, finishing with Nimueh, who, Deaton begs the stars, won’t start talking too, because she is more likely to take this man’s side than the one the Senate ordered them to take.

“Chief Stilinski is at the hospital,” General Hale finally starts, an edge to his voice no matter how quiet it is, and he rolls his shoulders before continuing, as if to stop a full on change into the more wolf-like creature the Kaleesh were rumored to have when fighting, “He is taking care of his son — one of the only two children I could rescue from the Huks.”

The Jedi are quiet at that, and Deaton can feel this going even worse than he had anticipated.

“He is also at the hospital because, when taking his son, one of the soldiers threw his wife against a wall, and she is now hanging by machine threads on a bed from which she will never again rise; sleeping, never to wake up.”

“General Hale—” he starts, but the Kaleesh merely looks at him and keeps talking, as if not having heard him.

“There is a five year old girl in this city now, who’s seen one of her best friends having his neck snapped by a Huk, just because they could. A four year old little boy who saw his mother get killed, and then saw thirty-six of his peers shot to death or killed by the Huks’ bare hands because they were too loud. Two children who saw one of their best friends try to defend them, putting herself in front of them to stop them from getting hurt. They saw this friend jump in front of a shot meant for a Huk, because she thought she could save another youngling,” he pauses, staring at the Jedi in the room, his voice not getting louder at any point, and not a single one of them can look at him in the eye, not even Deaton, “And now you are here to tell us terms for surrender, because a whole army couldn’t take on this bare land, and they resorted to a corrupt government who’d rather blame us for being attacked, and having our children killed, than lose a bit of trade and a bit of credit.”

Silence falls over them, and Deaton looks down, not in defeat, but thinking of how can they navigate this situation in such a way that won’t end with them having to actually wipe out the Kaleesh from the Galaxy.

When did they become such tools for the Senate that they have to uphold such unfair decisions?

Before any of them can answer, the door opens again.

“That is quite enough, Derek. Thank you.”

Chief Stilinski is wearing simple clothing, white tunic of rough fabric, and simple pants — not a battle uniform like General Hale is. He comes in with his son in his arms, the little boy clinging to him and hiding his face in his neck. Both of them have their eyes red from crying, and the chief looks like a man twice his age. Now clean, and out of the torn clothes they had seen him wearing when coming into the city in the General’s arms, the child looks even more pale and fragile — the way he desperately clings to his father does nothing to assuage Deaton’s regret.

Never, in his whole life with the Order, has Deaton least wanted to complete an assignment.

Derek takes a step away from the table and Chief Stilinski moves to pull the chair at the head of the table out. The little boy in his arms stares at the General and, when his father turns, making to put the child on the floor, the child raises his arms for the general, who holds him in his arms until his father takes him again, setting him on his lap. When the Kaleesh has the child in his arms, his whole face softens, and Deaton can almost feel the hearts of the two padawans breaking.

Chief Stilinski seems to steel himself for a moment before looking at them again.

“I gather, by General Hale’s speech, that you are not here to negotiate terms that will be favorable to Kalee.”

Gaius nods somberly, and he leans forward on the table, his hands steepled in front of him, leaning on his elbows.

“The Senate has favored the Huk with their decision, Chief Stilinski.”

“And you have come here to enforce that decision,” Hale says through gritted teeth.

“It was not a decision of the council, General Hale. We are only here as negotiators, not as warriors,” Nimueh tells him, sympathetic and firm all the once.

General Hale scoffs, and Stilinski tilts his head to the side a bit before speaking.

“Is that why they sent two Guardians, and only one fully trained Consular? Because this is negotiation?”

Deaton can see in him the Colonel of the Army he is at that moment, the political leader of a land that would never be ruled by the weak, even through all the pain and misery — this is dangerous territory. They are dealing with a General who knows how good he is at war, and a man who’s lost everything but his son to the very same war the Senate wants to blame on his people now.

They wouldn’t win, in case they decided not to agree to the terms — they would go to war, and they would lose, but Hale would take many good warriors with him before he went down too. Savage as they may be, the Kaleesh are also a proud people — Deaton can almost see in these two warriors’ eyes the way they’d rather die in battle than lose their whole war, their whole honor, at a table.

“We are fully aware that your situation — that _this_ situation — isn’t ideal for anyone involved. We were sent to negotiate the terms, yes, but also to reinforce these very same terms, in case there was a disagreement here,” Gaius tells the man calmly, and Stilinski too, only stares for a moment, not reacting. His son turns a bit on his lap, staring at the strange people at the table, and Deaton feels a very faint shiver — something the older, more experienced Jedi feel every time someone with the gifts of the Jedi is around.

He turns to Gaius, and they trade a look, knowing the man, and also Nimueh, felt it too.

“Why did they take the children?” Hale asks before they can dwell on the fact that the child sitting at the head of the table might as well just be the way to end this conversation with no more war, and no more bloodshed.

“We were told that the children would be taken away for the duration of the negotiation only, and then given back to their families. No kidnapping was to take place, it was supposed to be a good will gesture from the Yam’rii to spare the children the dangers of war coming to this planet,” Deaton explains patiently, looking back at the General.

“Are we supposed to believe that is what would have happened? The second they took notice of the invasion of their ship, they started killing the children. The last Huk standing killed Isaac Lahey in cold blood, just for the pleasure of not letting him live. And we are supposed to believe they would give us our children back.”

The child on the Chief’s lap whimpers quietly, and Hale’s whole demeanor changes and softens. He looks as if he regrets talking about the children who died, and stares at the child apologetically as the boy’s father rubs a hand down his back comfortingly.

“Maybe this negotiation isn’t the place for a youngling, especially one who’s suffered such a traumatizing experience so recently,” Gaius tells the Chief, and the man looks as if he wants to argue, or maybe send them away — possibly forever, Deaton is sure.

“Morgana, Mordred and I can take him,” Nimueh suggests quickly after that, and Deaton now is sure she felt the child too, “We’ll have a walk around the square. How would you like to show us your village, _chikra_?”

The boy seems to tremble in his father’s arms, clearly not comfortable in the room, but also not willing to leave the comfort of familiar people.

“Can General Hale come too?” he asks, his voice a tiny whisper, and Deaton is admittedly surprised by this. Feeling safe around the man is one thing, but asking for his presence instead of his father’s is something else entirely.

Hale looks torn when the Chief looks at him, as if asking for his opinion on the matter — what is even more surprising to the Jedi is when the man himself crouches down to Stiles’s height, staring right at the boy.

“Are you sure you want me to come?” his voice is soft when talking to the child, and the little boy nods quickly.

“It may be best, Derek,” the Chief tells him, “This way I can talk about these terms of negotiation more calmly, knowing Stiles is well protected.”

And also knowing the room won’t erupt into battle every time they disagree, with Hale far from there.

The man obviously knows this is what his Chief means, but he nods anyway, and takes Stiles from his father’s arms, setting him on his hip, and striding out of the room, not waiting for the three Jedi who had offered to come along.

As Nimueh walks out, she and Deaton trade a look — she will get confirmation, he’s sure of it.

Now, to the dreaded negotiation. He asks the stars for patience, and prays that Gaius skills, which are nothing to scoff at, will be enough for them to leave Kalee in peace.

**X**

Derek doesn’t feel comfortable with three Jedi around him, let alone near a child as traumatized as the Chief’s son is right now, but he guesses he has no choice — he is well aware of the fact that he is a risk in any negotiation room. His affairs are those of war, he is no good with words and agreements, especially those which will be wildly unfair to his people.

He fears for their future now more than he ever did in battle. Chief Stilinski may have been under him in battle, but in Kaleela he is the highest politic authority, and whatever he decides is best is what the people will have to live with. In his heart, he knows Jon would never do anything to harm their people, but he also knows that there is no way the Jedi sent a commission with two Consulars and three Guardians, if they are counting the padawans, should the terms of said agreement be favorable or fair to them.

They would lose this war with words, and would be lucky if they had anything left after the Jedi went back to Coruscant.

All of their children gone but two, and now all of their pride also.

“We were all sorry for what happened to the children,” the Jedi says, and Derek turns to stare at her. She is dark haired and blue-eyed, just like the two padawans following them a few steps behind, but she has a certain edge to her that the two younglings lack — she has seen much of the world, and for some reason, he believes her more than he does the Jedi Guardian they left behind with Stilinski.

“So sorry you’ll let us free to finish this war the way it should be finished?” he can’t help but snap at her, and she almost smiles at him.

“We only follow orders, no matter our own personal views.”

Derek doesn’t answer to that, not wishing to start a fight while he’s carrying a child in his arms.

Stiles still looks small and afraid, but he’s peeking over Derek’s shoulder at the padawans behind them, and from time to time, Derek can hear a quiet giggle at whatever faces the other two are pulling at him. The boy will never forget what’s happened to him, but maybe he can overcome it and become a man like his father is — a leader of their people, respected and correct. A far better man than Derek can ever be.

“Where is the Medical Center?” the Jedi woman asks, and Derek stares at her in question, making her continue, “It looks like the youngling is a bit too pale, maybe we should have him looked at?” she suggests, and Derek shuffles Stiles a bit, staring at him carefully.

He is, in fact, a bit too pale, his mouth a little too colorless, and checking him wouldn’t cause any harm. He isn’t sure whether Chief Stilinski had Stiles looked at before going to meet with the Jedi, and so he nods towards the low building, walking that way.

Stiles wiggles a bit in his lap, and Derek sets him down — the child immediately holds onto his hand, and it’s such a foreign feeling Derek barely knows what to do with it.

The two padawans start walking a bit faster, keeping up pace with the child.

“What is your name, little one?” the boy asks, making the girl scoff.

“Barely grew a few inches, and already calling other people little, Mordred?” she teases, and Stiles smiles at her a bit.

“Stiles,” the boy answers, voice still unsure, but a little closer to what Derek had always thought Stiles would be like, from the stories Chief Stilinski had told them during their many campaigns.

“I’m Mordred, and this is Morgana. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Stiles doesn’t answer to that, just keeps staring at the padawans in curiosity as they walk to the Medical Center.

“What do you like to do, Stiles?” the girl, Morgana, asks him, then, and Stiles tilts his head to the side a bit, considering.

“I like to play with Lydia. And Heather and Isaac, and—” he stops talking then, face going even paler, and Derek glares at the two young Jedi, but the boy is already talking again.

“Is Lydia your best friend? Morgana is mine, we met when we were even younger than you are now, did you know? We lived in the same house in the temple.”

Stiles swallows dryly a bit, and then blinks at them, frowning a bit.

“You have a house in a temple?”

“Yes, it’s where all the Jedi live to train. Our house is like our family when we are little, like you.”

“But where does your mom live? And your dad?”

The two young Jedi trade a look, and Mordred shrugs, reaching out both arms and offering to carry Stiles silently. To Derek’s surprise, the boy actually accepts the offer, being picked up and set on Mordred’s hip, between him and Morgana. Nimueh comes to his side then, glancing at him from time to time as they watch the younger ones talking.

“They live in their own planets, in their own homes. We are very special, Stiles, because we have gifts to train to become Jedi. We help people around the whole Galaxy.”

“General Hale helps people,” the child says, a slightly stubborn tone to his voice, “He saved me, and Lydia. And he fights the bad Huk with my dad, and they keep us safe.”

“We help people too,” Morgana tells him, looking at Derek from the corner of her eye, making it clear to him that she doesn’t fully believe he would be equal to a Jedi, “But we don’t help just the one planet, we help them all. It’s full of adventures and learning, and the Temple is all the way into Coruscant, and the city is so bright and beautiful it’ll take your breath away.”

Suddenly, Derek realizes why they are going to the Medical Center, and why they are talking about being a Jedi like it is a gift from the stars — Stiles. They think Stiles is like _them_.

He stops in his tracks, ready to take Stiles back from Mordred’s grip, and Nimueh stops too, putting a hand on his shoulder.

It takes everything he has not to snarl at her, even if she could probably take him apart with a single wave of her hand.

“We just need to test him. If he has midi-chlorians in his blood in a high enough count, the Jedi have the right, and the duty, to take him in,” she whispers, and he just stares then, in disbelief.

“You want to take one more child away from us?” he growls at her, and she just shakes her head.

“It’s not about taking him away from your people, it’s about bringing him into the world where he belongs,” she pauses then, taking a step to face him, making him stop, and the two padawans keep heading into the center with Stiles between them, “Think, General Hale, just think of a world where Kalee finally has a voice inside Coruscant. Stiles would be the first child of this planet to be brought into our fold — one day, when he is wise enough, he could be in the High Council. He is not young enough that he won’t remember his own home planet — he will remember Kalee, he will remember _you_ and his father, and how you fought to keep this world safe.” She stares intently into his eyes, earnest and true, and Derek takes a deep breath, trying to find words to fight against what she’s saying, but she pushes on, “Don’t think for a second that even one of us who are here today fully agrees with the Senate’s decision, but it is a necessary evil — it is politics, and they rule the Galaxy in a way that the Jedi never meant to. We are the keepers of the peace, not soldiers. However, what we do, and what we say, has weight in the Senate and with many Senators, from many planets — but right at this moment, Kalee isn’t among them, because there is no one there to defend it. Stiles could be it. He could be your chance to actually _save_ Kalee. To make this planet count like so many others do, no matter how far from Coruscant they are,” he looks down, but she keeps quiet and waiting until he stares into her eyes again, “Would you deny your planet this chance? More than that, would you deny that child his destiny, his path, what he is meant to be? He could be the savior of Kalee, would you deny him that?”

Derek doesn’t answer, because he knows it would serve no purpose: the law allows the Jedi to take the children who can become one of their own, and there is nothing any of them common folk can do about it. Breathing in deeply again and shaking her grip on his shoulder, he walks towards the Medical Center with the Jedi Master a few steps behind him.

When they enter, Melissa McCall has a small phial beside her, fingers flying over the keyboard on a terminal, and she looks at Derek with tears in her eyes.

Nimueh walks past him and crouches to talk to Stiles, but Derek isn’t listening anymore.

It seems as if he cannot win this day.

**X**

Chief Stilinski and the Jedi are waiting at the steps of the building when they walk back, and Derek can’t help but feel like he has failed the man somehow, for having let the Jedi test his only son — they have the right to take him away now, no matter what the man thinks or wants, no matter that Stiles is all he has left in the world.

By the look at the older man’s face, he is aware of what happened.

When they come close enough, he leans down and picks Stiles up, holding him close and staring at Derek.

“He tested positive, then,” he states, and Derek nods, looking at Master Deaton and then at Master Gaius — both men at least have the decency of looking grim and somber, aware of what they are doing to this man who has lost everything in the space of a few hours.

Master Nimueh and the two padawans are a few steps away from them and, when Jon Stilinski sets his son down, crouching to look at him at eye level, the others have the decency to look away, giving him the illusion of privacy. Derek doubts any of them would leave Stiles out of their sight now, and that angers him as much as it makes him feel more calm — for all their faults, the Jedi look out for their own, and Stiles will forever be protected in the Force, or whatever it is that these people seem to believe so fiercely it makes them think it’s right to take children away from their families.

“Son, I need to tell you something very important,” Jon starts, and Derek can see Stiles frowning, worry etching his features in a way that shouldn’t be so natural on a child his age, “I need you to listen carefully, can you do that?”

The boy nods, and Jon swallows dryly, his eyes red, but he doesn’t let any tears fall — maybe he doesn’t have any of them left.

“Master Deaton and Master Gaius told me you are very special. They want to take you to Coruscant, to become a Jedi.”

“Like Mordred and Morgana?” the kid asks, more cautious than a four year old has any right to be, and Jon inhales sharply in surprise and sadness.

“Yes. Like them.”

“Are you coming too?” His voice is quitter now, almost as if he knows the answer but doesn’t want to believe it yet.

“I can’t, son. I have to take care of Kaleela, and only children can be taken into training. I’m not as special as you are,” he finishes with a small smile, and Stiles tilts his head, tears running down his face.

“Is Lydia coming too?”

Chief Stilinski shakes his head, and doesn’t seem to know how to answer, but the kid keeps going.

“Is it because mom got hurt trying to help me? Is that why you’re sending me away?”

At that, the man seems to be completely lost for words, shaking his head vehemently, but still can’t find his voice to answer.

It’s the padawan, the boy, who takes a few steps towards them, and kneels by Stiles too.

“Your father isn’t sending you away, Stiles. We aren’t taking you away from your family either — we are giving you a bigger one. More friends for you to make, more things for you to learn, and one day, when you’re older, you’ll become a Jedi Knight, and have adventures, and help people,” he pauses then, reaching out and putting his hands on the boy’s shoulders, “Your dad isn’t sending you away, he’s giving you the chance to live a life like no one else on this planet can.”

Stiles doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but Stilinski picks Stiles up, then, hugging him tightly, and kissing both his cheeks, holding onto him like a lifeline.

“I love you, son. Never, ever forget that.”

The child holds him back, and it’s only when the two older Masters start walking down the steps that the man looks up at Derek, and gives Stiles to him, shaking his head, and turning away.

Derek Hale, General of the Kaleesh Army, was the hero who carried those two children back into Kalee after the Huk killed all the others, and now, he is the one carrying one of those children away from Kalee, possibly forever.

Stiles’s small hands are holding him as tightly as he can manage, and he can’t help but squeeze him gently back, caring more for this child than he had cared about anyone else since his whole family died on the first Huk attack, so long ago.

The Jedi Consular boards the ship, and his stern look makes his padawan follow him; and then it’s Master Deaton’s turn. Only Nimueh and Mordred remain, and Derek doesn’t want to let this child go, but he knows he has no choice, none of them does, after all — not even the Jedi.

Staring at the two of them, Derek takes a step towards the boy and carefully passes Stiles to him. The smaller boy stares at him with huge eyes, but doesn’t complain, doesn’t beg to stay, and doesn’t ask for his dad — Derek isn’t sure if it’s shock or acceptance.

“Look after him,” he tells the padawan somberly, his voice thick with anger and frustration.

“I promise,” Mordred tells him, nodding once, holding Stiles carefully as if afraid the child will break.

The last time General Hale sees Stiles Stilinski is when he boards the ship, small hand reaching out as if trying to touch him, tears rolling freely down his cheeks. The ship takes flight just moments later, and Derek stares at it until it disappears completely into the night of Kalee.

They lost — and he has a feeling it was more than just the war.

**X**

When he goes back into the city, he finds Chief Stilinski sitting in the dark in his own home, a bottle of Ithorian mist on the table, his glass almost empty — Derek has the feeling that is not his first one either.

He sits, draining the rest of the glass and closing his eyes at the burning taste.

Stilinski still hasn’t looked at him properly, looking lost, angry, and half-dead.

“How bad is it?” he asks after they keep drinking for long minutes in silence, neither of them bothering to turn on the lights, darkness suiting their moods well enough.

Stilinski scoffs, bitter in a way Derek had never seen him before.

“They blamed the whole war on us. We owe more to the Huks and the Banking Clan than we could get if we sold the whole planet population into slavery,” he pauses, refilling the glass and taking it to his lips in a long drag before finally looking at Derek in the eye, a bitter smirk on his lips, “The Huks won’t attack us again, though, it’s part of the agreement. They took all of our children, our people will probably starve to death, and we owe them our very souls, but that bunch of incompetent bugs can’t attack us again.”

Derek wishes he could summon up anger and fury like he had earlier that day — had it only been that morning? It seems like a lifetime away — but he can’t bring himself to do it.

They have been defeated.

“Stiles is older than children taken in usually are,” Jon starts, looking out the windows again, the shine of the moon making him look even paler and more somber, “They didn’t take him because they believe they _need_ him. They took him because they knew I would never fight against their terms with my only son there, at their mercy,” he stops talking, scoffing at his own words, bitter and broken, “I couldn’t even save my own son,” he finishes, voice thick with angry tears and lost hopes.

Derek thinks of the woman, Nimueh, and her words to him, and against all odds, he, the General who lives for fighting, the man who risks everything for a win, is the one to have a little hope, to feel a little less like they lost everything.

“Maybe he will be the one to save us,” he whispers, but he isn’t sure Jon hears him.

In silence, they watch the sun rise in Kalee — the universe goes on and on, and all they can do is move on with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come tell me what you think of it on Tumblr <3 ](http://darkjan.tumblr.com/)


	4. Coruscant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter heavy on the Merlin-side of things - it's also where the fic that goes along with it starts. So there'll be spoilers for The Invisible Threat in this from here on out (but just on the sense that Merlin becomes Anakin-y, and Mordred becomes Obi_wan-y).
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it!!! Tiny Padawan Stiles <3

Stiles had never traveled a lot — living in a war-filled planet, his father with the Army, his mother having to take care of the needs of the city when his father was away, it didn’t make for a life where one could travel around and see the world.

The furthest place he had ever visited had been Shrupak Temple — a structure that, to a three-year-old Stiles, had seemed so big and imposing he remembers being glued to his mother’s side the whole time they visited.

If he had a mother, he would probably ask to be carried, because Coruscant is _scary_. The second they come out of hyperspace, he glues himself to Mordred’s side until the padawan picks him up, both of them staring at the planet which is lit up by millions, perhaps billions of lights all over its surface. He has never seen anything like it — he has never even _imagined_ anything like this.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, _chikra_?” Nimueh asks him, but Stiles takes in a shuddering breath and shakes his head slightly, eyes wide and scared.

It’s not beautiful — it’s foreign. It’s not his world, not his home, it’s alien as nothing else has ever been in his life.

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” Master Deaton asks him, voice calm and centered, and Stiles nods, turning to look at the man who is now standing beside them by the windows, “The whole planet is a single city, and you could walk days and days without seeing the sky in between buildings. Every race in the Galaxy has representation here, and you’ll never find a place with more people, more different cultures, more diversity than in Coruscant. It’s a beautiful place after you learn to love it, and the Temple is the calm in the center of the storm. That is where you’ll learn and train, and become the Jedi you are meant to be.”

A part of Stiles wants to argue. A part of him wants to ask to go back home, tell the man he doesn’t want to train to become a Jedi — he never did. They talk about the Jedi as if they are heroes, but that is not what Stiles has heard his whole life: to him, the Jedi sounded more like scary stories than saviors, and he isn’t sure he wants to do that.

A part of him wants to go back to his dad — but another part, a bigger one, the one that makes him keep quiet and not cry, that part reminds him that his mother is dead and his father sent him away.

Maybe, even if he asked to go back, even if the Jedi with him agreed, even if they found out he isn’t special after all and can’t be trained in the ways of the Force, he wouldn’t be able to find his home again, because he doesn’t have one anymore — his family fell apart when the Huk threw his mother against a wall and took him away.

Deaton is staring at him as they descend onto a landing pad that is so different from their yellow, sandy landing strip in Kalee as Coruscant is to him as a planet, and he wiggles a bit, making Mordred set him down.

The padawan offers him his hand, but Stiles shies away a bit, standing beside Master Deaton, head held high like he had seen General Hale do every time he came back from a campaign.

It’s a foreign place, with foreign people, and a foreign life, but he would be brave — there is nothing else for him to do, anyway.

**X**

Their dealings with the council are swift — because of the discovery of a Force-sensitive youngling on Kalee, it had been far easier to convince the Chief of Kaleela to cede to their terms than they had previously anticipated, and, therefore, no retribution against the Huk or the Republic would be sought out by the Kaleesh.

Master Kilgharrah nods somberly when he is told as much by Master Gaius, his reptilian features not betraying anything, but every single member of the Council feels a little more like they aren’t keeping to their mission with the end of that war.

“Chief Stilinski agreed to the terms, and I don’t think he will back out of them — he is a man of his word, as is General Hale, despite all the violence that seems to follow his name,” Gaius is finishing his report, with Deaton standing on one side, Nimueh on the other, “The youngling we brought in is the Chief’s son, his only son, and that, more than anything else, will keep them true to their promises.”

“Is there a chance that General Hale will seek another war in revenge?” Master Peter questions them, expression calculating as always, but Nimueh is already shaking her head when Deaton starts to answer.

“He won’t. It pains me to admit it, but with the terms in the way they are, the Kaleesh won’t have much left to try and engage in a new war for years to come — they will have trouble enough keeping their population from starving to death to think of retribution just for the sake of the fight.”

“Which, as we all know, was very likely the Senate’s intention with this decision,” Nimueh adds, her voice full of contempt for such actions.

Master Kilgharrah hums, not voicing an agreement, but his silence is enough for them to know he isn’t happy with the situation either.

“And the child?”

“A boy of four,” Nimueh tells them, “Morgana and Mordred have taken him for testing, and he will be placed in the appropriate clan soon enough,” she pauses, allowing a small smile to cross her features for a second, “Mordred, especially, seems to have taken a liking to the child. It may well be that when the time comes for young Stiles to become a padawan, Mordred will be ready to train him.”

Kilgharrah hums again, nodding.

“Early attachments to ones within the order are a good way to forge loyalties later on.”

They all nod in agreement, and say their goodbyes, each leaving to see to their own duties now that they are back. Deaton goes to check with the two padawans, wishing to know in which clan the child would be placed.

As he had imagined, Stiles is taken in by the Dragon Clan — he can see on the padawans’ faces they had expected him to go to the Heliost Clan, like they had been, but Deaton sees more than insight in the boy. He feels the youngling’s energy to be too reckless to have use for his insightfulness, and he already feels sorry for the one who’ll have to teach him the ways of the Force as his Master, the strong will the child had shown so far remarkable at such a young age. The whole trip back to Coruscant, the child hadn’t shed a single tear, his small face determined even while sad — and on their arrival, his determination to stand on his own two feet, with no one else there to hold his hand as they descended onto the planet where he will spend the next few years, all of it spoke of a strong willed mind, something as valuable as it is troublesome for a Jedi.

Time will tell of his destiny, though, as it always does within the Force.

The next day, he goes over to watch the first day of Stiles’s training, out of sheer curiosity — and he isn’t the only one. The children settle around Master Kilgharrah as he instructs them on the Force. Some of them have an easier time with mastering their focus on the Force and such simple tasks than others, and Stiles seems to be doing well for a first timer.

“He will be fine, won’t he, Master Deaton?” Mordred asks him, and Deaton turns to look at the young man — gentle and kind, determined when need be, but always fair, Mordred will be a great Jedi Master one day, Deaton is sure, compassionate as few are nowadays.

“He will find his place in the Order, as we all do, young padawan,” Deaton answers him, and the young man nods, before turning to leave — clearly, he hadn’t gotten permission to be there, and came out of worry for the child who is already traumatized. His presence doesn’t surprise Deaton at all — Master Peter’s, however, does.

The man nods regally at him, head bowing slightly, in a greeting that Deaton answers in kind. Such formalities aren’t always observed by many, but Master Peter is always proper, always in control, a gentle reminder to all around him that he comes from noble heritage, and hasn’t forgotten that fact.

“A good fit for him, this clan, coming as he does from such a violent background,” the man observes as the children laugh when one of them loses control of her sphere, and sends it spinning around the room. Stiles laughs too, but it’s quiet and reserved.

Deaton nods, turning his back on the training children and walking away, Peter coming along.

“Tell me, Master Deaton, what is General Hale like?”

“Why the sudden interest, Master Peter?” Deaton asks back, intrigued by the man’s curiosity.

“It seems to me hard to believe that one would be so talented in warfare so young with no input from the Force, and no family history to speak of,” the man starts, contemplative and calm, “We would have failed to locate young Stiles had the Senate not sent us in for negotiations — could it be that we missed more potential Jedi on that planet?”

Deaton considers it for a moment, but shakes his head negatively.

“General Hale is a talented Kaleesh, but he doesn’t seem to be force-sensitive, just an exceptional individual, with exceptional talent for war, and an extraordinarily compassionate being.”

Peter raises an eyebrow in disbelief at that.

“Compassionate? I expected the Kaleesh to be many things, but compassionate wasn’t one of them.”

Deaton nods once, conceding the point, but keeps on talking.

“I don’t think it’s the taste for war that drives that young warrior, but a need to do right by his people. Talented as he may be in killing and defeating his opponents, he didn’t seem to do it for greed or profit, but because he was defending his own kind, his own planet,” he pauses then, thinking back on Nimueh’s telling of their trip to the Medical Center, of the young General’s reaction to knowing Stiles would be taken away, “He showed immense care to the children he brought back from the Yam’rii freighter, especially towards Stiles. He is a good man, thrown in a bad situation, it seems, but not a force-sensitive Kaleesh overlooked by us.”

“It eases my mind to know we haven’t been remiss in one more way towards that world. The damage we’ve done with the negotiation alone is enough.”

“The weight of the war would take many more lives, had it been allowed to continue, Master Peter, we know that well.”

Peter smirks at Deaton then, looking almost as if he thinks Deaton is naïve for saying so.

“The war would be harmful, yes; but the Kaleesh were hardly to blame for it. After the war against the Bitthævrians, which they fought on our side, might I add, they deserved far better from us.”

“The Senate has their reasons—”

“Oh, they certainly do,” Peter stops walking, smirk once again in place, and faces Deaton with that glint in his eyes, as if he knows far more than he is letting on, “The point is, Master Deaton, that we should not attend to the Senate’s every whim.” He looks back, where the children are still trying to keep their focus in their training, and frowns, “We are the Keepers of the Peace, not an army of politicians’ bounty hunters, sent off to do their bidding with only their say-so. It worries me greatly what the Republic has done to our Order.”

“The Force works in mysterious ways, Master Peter.”

“So does the Senate, Master Deaton. But we are obliged to serve only one of those, and I’m no longer sure we are serving the right one.”

With that, the man strides away, leaving Deaton with an uneasy feeling. He knows the man is right on his observations, but he also has to trust they are doing the right thing, even if it may not seem so at this time.

If he can no longer trust in the Council of the Jedi Order, who will he trust?

**X**

Living in the Jedi Temple is strange in many ways, and so very familiar in others. He has chores, and time for learning, and duties to accomplish, much like he had back at Kalee, but now his duties include learning to focus the Force within him, meditating so he wouldn’t feel oppressed by everything there is around him, and training his body and mind so that, one day, he would be a padawan, a Jedi Knight, and even, if he is good enough, a Master Jedi, like Master Peter and Master Kilgharrah.

He has friends now, more than he did in Kalee, and they are all like him. He feels at home roaming around the Temple and delving into its archives to learn of old times of the Jedi, reading about wars fought and won, and wars avoided by the interference of the Force. He likes to study focus and train with a mock-sword, and he loves his clan and the people who take care of him.

Most days, he can forget who he had been and where he had come from. He can almost erase Kalee from his mind, almost forget that this hasn’t always been his life, the calm of the Temple, Mordred’s and Morgana’s occasional visits, bringing him one treat or another from whatever assignment they had been given by the Council with their Masters. Some days he can forget all of his past in the face of his bright, amazing future: traveling the Galaxy as a Guardian, training to be a Jedi Knight, saving planets and whole worlds with his lightsaber in his hand.

Some days, however, it all comes back to him, and he has trouble focusing, trouble connecting with the children who have been raised in the Temple since they had been born, protected from all the bad things going on out there.

He can almost _feel_ trouble in the air, but Master Deaton, in one of his lessons, had dismissed it as him starting his training too late, and being too attached to the people who had raised him in his early childhood.

Master Peter, however, listens to him, and always makes him describe the exact feeling he has, telling him it is the Force warning him of things to come. Master Peter visits from time to time, talks to the other children, but always pays special attention to him, and it makes him feel happy and safe, knowing there is someone out there who cares about him as Stiles, and not just another youngling. The man takes him on walks around the temple, showing him places to play, and hidden niches in the Archives, and, once, had even taken him into Coruscant itself, where he had seen the lights speeding by as they walked the tall corridors around important buildings. Master Deaton had been very displeased about that, but Master Peter had only smiled at the other Jedi, which had made him frown even harder, and told Stiles to get to his room as they talked.

It’s no surprise that he likes Master Peter far more than he likes anyone else in the Temple, with the possible exception of Mordred and Morgana.

He knows when he is older he will have a Master to teach him, and a part of him hopes one of them will have already passed their Trials and take him as a padawan. He remembers Mordred in Kalee with him, and Morgana’s kind smile at him whenever he is feeling too sad. He remembers General Hale giving him to Mordred, and the padawan’s promise to keep him safe. The way Mordred talks to him, he is sure that, when the time comes, that is what will happen.

He is sure, that is, until Merlin.

Merlin comes into the Order about a year after Stiles is taken in, and he causes disruption everywhere he goes. Stiles had been four the year before when they had taken him in, and many of his tutors had said they feared for his progress because he was older than usual — Merlin was twelve years old, and yet, apparently, special enough that he would be considered for training.

Stiles doesn’t have much contact with the boy, even after their first meeting: all he knows is from hearsay and gossip passing around among the younglings and Initiates, as news usually do when there is a large group of children put together — he hasn’t seen the boy yet, but he doesn’t really like him all that much. The first time he met him, it was at Master Nimueh’s funeral, and that first contact does nothing to endear him to Stiles at all, which is probably the root of Stiles’s dislike for the other kid. It doesn’t help that Mordred is there, beside Merlin — the two of them pale, and tall and blue-eyed. He thinks on Morgana, who hasn’t waken up yet, and they all seem slightly different versions of the same person in a slightly eerie manner he dislikes immediately. Merlin is already wearing padawan’s clothing, his flap ears standing out with the unfortunate padawan haircut; while Mordred himself has been made a Knight through a Battlefield promotion, or whatever it was that Alis-Sen told him when he had asked.

After that, he doesn’t see much of Mordred or Morgana — he is, again, left on his own, and feels ever the more lonely when Master Peter comes to say his farewell to him too.

The man kneels in front of him, his always-present smirk missing from his lips as he puts his hands on Stiles’s shoulders.

“I hope to hear great things from you, Stiles.”

“Why are you leaving?” he asks, not crying, never crying, not ever since he left Kalee.

The man sighs, looking down, clearly trying to find a way to explain this to a small child.

Master Peter never lies to him. He tells him things, and makes him understand others, and some things he tells Stiles he is not yet old enough to understand, but he never lies.

“I hope you will be a great Jedi Master one day, Stiles, but this Order is corrupt,” the man says, “For as long as the Republic holds as much power over the Order as it does now, being a Jedi is like being a puppet at the hands of the Senate, and I refuse to be it any longer,” Stiles blinks at him, understanding only half of what the man is saying, and Peter seems to realize that, smiling at him, a sad kind of smile, “Remember your home planet, Stiles. Remember your father, and remember your people. And when the time comes, remember how you came to be here. Don’t trust the Order blindly, youngling. Promise me that.”

Stiles nods at the man, receiving a rare hug, and not fully understanding what is happening. Watching Master Peter walk away from the Temple, Stiles has never felt so completely alone in his life.

A few days after Peter leaves, Mordred comes to visit him, and Stiles knows what he is going to say even before the young Knight tells him.

“Hello, Stiles,” the man starts with a smile, his hair no longer with the braid behind his ear, signaling his full transformation into a Knight.

Stiles looks at him and smiles a bit, but he can’t bring himself to greet the man. He isn’t having the best week — Kalee and his father, General Hale and Lydia on his mind for days now, ever since Master Peter left.

“How is your training going?” he asks, sitting down, and Stiles just shrugs, putting a few of his books away, or one of his tutors would come and lecture him on the necessity of tidiness in his living space.

“It’s good. Master Deaton says I need to work on my focus. He told me to meditate more,” he finishes shrugging, and Mordred laughs at his disgruntled face.

“Gaius made Morgana meditate a lot too. It helped her very much.”

“Where is Morgana?” his voice curious, and maybe a bit accusatory — he misses her. He misses Master Peter, and Morgana, and Mordred too, even now that he is right here in front of him.

“She had to take care of a new part of her training,” Mordred tells him kindly, with a sad kind of smile, “She couldn’t come to say goodbye, but I’m sure you’ll see her around soon enough.”

Stiles nods at him, and sits on his bed, staring at Mordred, shoulders dropping down in defeat.

“Master Peter left too.”

Mordred swallows dryly at that, nodding along.

“I know. He went back to his home planet.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything anymore, and Mordred seems to be trying to muster up a smile.

“I have someone I would like you to meet,” the young Knight says, going to the door and opening it, gesturing a kid in with a wave.

Merlin is not what Stiles had expected him to be, with all the talking that had been going around because of him. He wouldn’t say he is twelve, but eight or nine — Eri-Ka would probably look much older than him, and she’s only thirteen.

“Hello,” Merlin greets him, and Stiles stares at him for a few seconds, before looking at Mordred again.

“He is your padawan,” he states, not even bothering to ask, and Mordred nods at him, face serious and solemn. Stiles tilts his head to the side a bit, twisting the hem of his tunic in a nervous habit that had gotten him in trouble more than once since he got to the Temple, “You promised General Hale you would keep me safe,” he continues, before Mordred has a chance to say anything.

Mordred smiles at him again, reaching out this time, and setting a hand on Stiles’s shoulder.

“And I will, little one. I always will, for as long as I’m around, and as long as you need,” Stiles doesn’t seem to believe him — half of him wants to kick Merlin’s leg and demand Mordred keep his promise to him and to General Hale, and then he remembers he shouldn’t even be taking the General into account, because he doesn’t belong to that world anymore. “Master Nimueh was going to train him, and I promised her I would do it in her stead,” Mordred continues in a more solemn voice, and all Stiles can do is sigh — they keep making promises over promises, and he can’t see how they’ll keep them all. He understands, though, the need to keep one’s word to someone you love, and Mordred loved his Master very much, Nimueh was like an older sister to him, and Stiles can’t be quite petty enough to stay angry at the man for keeping his word to his dead Master.

 Mordred pokes him on the side, teasing smile in place now that he sees Stiles isn’t quite as moody, “And who knows? Maybe you won’t be a padawan until you’re older, and Merlin will be a Knight by the time you’re ready.”

Stiles frowns then, but he is in a better mood now.

“I’ll be a better padawan than he is,” he says, and Mordred laughs loudly at that — even Merlin smiles timidly a few steps away, quiet as he had been when he came in.

It’s a plan, Stiles thinks as he watches Mordred leaving with Merlin a few minutes later. Maybe his tutors won’t think he’s ready for offworld training until he’s older and wiser, and Mordred can take him on as his padawan, anyway.

As time goes by, though, it becomes clear Stiles is a gifted child, tenacious as his clan claims to be — he never gives up on a challenge, never turns his back on learning something just because it proves difficult, throwing himself at his training with everything he has. He makes friends, some older than him, some younger, and by the time he’s twelve, Master Deaton suggests he’s ready for training as a padawan.

Mordred and Merlin have left the Temple to complete part of his training only three years ago, but Stiles had given up hope on becoming Master Mordred’s padawan long before it happened — the bond between the two young men much bigger than Stiles himself had ever had with anyone else.

When Master Deaton offers to take him on, Stiles is honored, above anything else, and throws himself with renewed enthusiasm, determined to prove he is worthy of being the great Master’s padawan.

They don’t always see eye to eye, and Master Deaton often says he sees more of Peter — _Count_ Peter now — in Stiles than he is comfortable with, but Stiles doesn’t really care — he is on his way to becoming a Jedi Knight, and nothing will stand in his way.

**X**

Derek is used to not having easy days — he has not had an easy life, it stands to reason that difficulty is his constant companion, and suffering is never far from him.

It hadn’t always been so, but some days he can barely remember a time when he wasn’t expecting the very worst that can happen to attack him at every corner.

Once, he had been a young, happy Kaleesh, living on his home planet, dreaming of the day he’d be old enough to travel with his father to other planets to bring his people supplies. Then the war happened, and all of his plans and dreams were over.

He had been fifteen when his planet was first attacked — thousands of Kaleesh taken by the Huks and sold into slavery, two of his sisters had been taken that day never to be seen again, his parents burned to death inside their house when the soulless bugs had burned down most of his village.

Running away to Kaleela with the few survivors, he had learned it wasn’t just his village that had been raided, but their whole _planet_. Warriors as they were, they fought back, and Derek joined the army without a second thought.

The secret to being a soldier, Derek soon learned, was to obey orders to the best of your abilities. His abilities weren’t any better than any other Kaleesh, not even than their humans’ — what he was better at was throwing himself into danger with no regard to his personal safety: he had no mother to cry for him in case he was killed, no wife to suffer if he didn’t come back, no child to mourn him if he died in battle, and that made him the best of them all. He had risen through their ranks with impressive speed, learning of battle tactics as he went along, and finding them easy and natural to him — he made an impressive name for himself, and was feared and respected even within his own ranks.

To have all of that thrown away, to have his war won by the Huk through political maneuver, had crushed a part of his soul, he wouldn’t deny it, but his will to fight for his people never diminished, never went away, never vanished. In losing his blood family, he had come to see the whole of Kalee as his own, his family to love and protect, and he would give his life for them to his last breath.

In the wake of the children’s massacre, Chief Stilinski had become a little more than a shell, lost and desperate for weeks, not really knowing what to do to help himself, let alone his people — and his people desperately needed help. They had no food, and no money, and no trade. The few mercenaries with families still on the planet fled, but many of their people didn’t have the luxury of making a new home far from there, some of them didn’t even want to — they were Kaleesh, they would persevere and find a way out.

Derek wishes he could say he found them a solution, but truth is that the solution found him. Kalee was in debt not only to the Huks, but also to the Banking Clan — debt so big they wouldn’t be able to pay it in ten lifetimes. That is why when the Banking Clan representatives approached him, San Hill himself coming to negotiate with Derek, he accepted what they had offered, once again with no regards to his personal feelings.

General Hale had, after all, made a name for himself not only in their system, but in the whole Galaxy. He was feared as a legend and a warrior, and the Banking Clan, with as many creditors as it had, could use an impressive name as Derek’s to collect debts with as little trouble as possible. In exchange for his services, they offered to take over all of Kalee’s debt and pay them off, so long as Derek kept on working for them for as long as he was able.

Chief Stilinski wanted to refuse, but the both of them knew they were in no place to do so, no matter how they felt about it — it was their only solution, and Derek accepted it.

Their people still see him as their savior, even though he is now little more than a thug for the Banking Clan, and no longer a warrior. There is no honor in his work, nothing righteous about the way he collects debts from whole planets at the mention of his name alone.

There is an old Kaleesh legend that the true, honorable warriors become gods when they die — when he was young, and foolish, and not yet privy to the horror of real war, Derek had dreamed of becoming a god, bringing honor to his race, and his family. He sees now, there is nothing honorable left in him to make that silly dream come true.

The collector job is still better than the offer he receives four years after he starts working for the Banking Clan — the Separatist Movement that had been taking shape for years had finally organized itself into a semblance of order, and they needed someone to lead their army. However, as much as Derek despises the Republic and the Senate, as much as he hates being a thug charging money from planets who are in an even worse situation than his own, he would never agree to fight for the Separatists — fighting for them would mean fighting against everything he had ever fought for: his people.

One Kaleesh child is the thing holding Derek back from becoming a Separatist himself, and the same Kaleesh child is keeping Chief Stilinski from joining the movement too — for as long as Stiles is a Jedi, they have no place in that movement, and that is the one line General Hale will not cross.

So on and on Derek works, flying from planet to planet, getting money for the Clan who took all of his planet’s, and hating himself for it; refusing to work for the Separatists who keep coming back to him no matter how many times he tells them he has no interest in their cause.

It’s a miserable life, but Derek is used to misery.

It continues on for a long time, everyday a battle Derek struggles to fight, but he keeps on going for his people.

It’s a day like any other when everything changes.

Debt collected and delivered to Muunilinst, Derek heads back to Kaleesh for a few days off, to rest in peace before going off again — his Z95 Headhunter is still the ship he favors to fly in, and he doesn’t expect the strange attack on his ship, but what he expects even less is to _survive_ it.

He is brought back into Kaleesh, and when he regains consciousness, he can hear Melissa and Stilinski talking near him, but he can’t really see them at all.

It’s as if he has no concept of space anymore, no body to be aware of. When they notice he is awake, they cease talking, and Derek can only focus on them few seconds at a time — something is wrong with his eyes.

He wants to ask what happened, but he can’t really make his mouth move, and he starts to feel desperate and helpless, and neither is a feeling he is used to dealing with.

There is someone else in the room with Melissa and Jon, but Derek can’t seem to focus on the person. Voices fly around him, and he feels as if he’s floating in mid-air, not able to understand what is happening around him, except for one thing: he is going to die.

He is already half dead.

After so many years fighting, so many battles won, and so many enemies destroyed, it’s an accident, an attack with no war behind it, probably a ship thinking they’d make easy credit by stealing what he no longer had, that is going to kill him once and for all — he won’t die like the warrior he used to be, like the General a whole Galaxy fears: he will die on a bed on his little forgotten planet, and no one else will be able to help Kalee anymore.

He wants to speak up, tell Melissa to turn off the damn machines that keep beeping around him with no use — he doesn’t feel like he _has_ a body, he is clearly going to die, so why prolong his suffering? There is no one he can say his farewells to apart from the two people already in the room with him. He will never see Lydia grow up, he will never see Stiles as a Jedi Knight, and those are the two things that pains him the most, but if he’s honest with himself — and it may be his last chance to do so — maybe he is ready to die, once and for all.

The voices quiet down around him, and he is aware of both Melissa and Jon nodding at the unknown person in the room with them. He hears steps moving away from him, and then steps coming closer. Using all of his will power, he opens his eyes and focuses on the man now leaning towards his glass covered bed, a smirk on his lips, and Derek wants to scream — there, talking quietly to him, is Count Peter, the man who represents the Separatists, and Derek knows, deep in his heart, that nothing that comes out of this man is good for him or his people.

Before he can even try to protest, though, darkness takes him over again, and he prays never to wake up.

If he’s gone, he can’t suffer anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come tell me what you think of it on Tumblr <3 ](http://darkjan.tumblr.com/)


	5. It begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Derek.  
> You can't catch a break, can you?  
> 3
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> And for those of you wondering: Scott shows up in the next chapter!

It’s not greed that makes them do it, it’s remorse.

General Hale, Derek, as they had taken to calling him the last few years, is the one person who kept Kalee from completely falling apart since the Huk War — blast, he was the one person who kept Jon himself from falling apart after the Jedi had taken his son the same day his wife had died.

The young man did nothing for himself, working as hard as he could to bring honor to Kalee, to keep them from drowning in the debt from the war, keep their people from going hungry, giving them all a chance to start again.

Jon was still called Chief only because Derek would never take the title himself, too selfless even when the honor would be deserved ten times over.

He is well aware of how many times the Separatists had approached Derek, and he knows their whole life would be easier if only they joined the systems leaving the Republic — after all, what had the Republic brought onto them that could be seen in a positive light? War after war of being used as tools to the Republic gain, and getting betrayal and death as their payment. Joining the Separatists would give them the freedom they desperately needed — however, joining them would mean going against the Jedi, their entire Order, and every child they had taken in and trained.

Even his own son.

Derek never said it out loud, but Jon knows, as does Melissa, that Derek would never agree to work for the Separatists on that reason alone, and it soothes Jon’s heart to know there would be someone to take care of his son even if he was more than half a Galaxy away.

The accident that almost took Derek’s life comes as much of a surprise to Jon as the kidnapping of their children had so many years ago — the young man has almost nothing left, and it’s only Melissa’s swift care that stops him from dying right there and then. Fortunately, there was a ship nearby, and they rescued the young General and brought him to Kalee, even if there was little to be done for him.

Derek’s whole body had been damaged, the fire from the accident leaving him burned and scarred beyond what a human could take. Only his wolfish nature had stopped him from dying in the explosion, but it wouldn’t do him much good in the long run.

Count Peter is the kind of man Jon has absolutely no trust in, but he had carried Derek into his ship, damaging his own shields to rescue the Kaleesh. Leader of the Separatist Movement, Politician and renowned Jedi Master before leaving the Order altogether, the Count had made no secret that he had come to offer Derek a position as the head of his Army once again, and, while Jon knew he had good intentions, he also knows Derek would never say yes — even if he could.

Unmoving and destroyed, what once was General Hale has no defined body — an agglomeration of bones, muscles and tissue are what’s left of his chest, a miracle protecting his heart. His lungs seem to have been completely destroyed, and his arms and legs are left skinless by the fire. His face is a mask of angry red wounds, and his eyes are burned through the lids — Melissa isn’t sure he will ever see again.

As they wait for the man to wake up, Count Peter sighs in the room, looking disgruntled and saddened.

“I’ve always imagined what Kalee was like when talking to young Stiles, but from what he said, I must confess I didn’t expect… quite what it is.”

Jon is alert at the mention of his son’s name, looking up at the man who is staring out the windows, yellow and orange, faded red and dirty gold in the expanse of sand that surrounds Kaleela framing his dark robes.

“You met Stiles?” Jon asks, voice eager, and Peter turns to stare at him with a kind smile on his face.

“Most eager padawan I have ever met.”

Jon smiles, his eyes filling with tears as he hears the first piece of news about his son in five years.

“Sounds like my Stiles.”

“He was my favorite in many, many years,” Count Peter tells him, sitting beside Jon on an old chair, both now facing Derek’s bed, covered in glass, beeping machines all around them, “Had I not decided to leave the Order, I would have gladly taken him as my padawan, but, alas, I could no longer abide with what the Jedi have become, Chief Stilinski. I haven’t become a Separatist out of greed, or anger — but because of what the Order has become in the hands of the corrupt Senate. Because of what they did to your planet, and so many others, with no consequence,” he stops talking, turning to look at Jon in the eyes, “That is why I sought General Hale’s help so many times before, and will keep doing so. I believe he could help us — help us rid the Galaxy from corruption and immorality. Help us get back onto our feet and maybe, one day, reestablish the Jedi Order as it is meant to be.”

Jon is quiet at that, looking away from Count Peter and staring at Derek’s half-dead body as he speaks.

“I understand your reasoning, Count Peter — every single Kaleesh does. But neither I, nor General Hale, would ever fight against the Order who has Stiles in their midst,” his voice is soft but final, and Count Peter nods once, his hands folded on his lap calmly, as if he hadn’t expected any other answer.

“I understand that, Chief Stilinski, I do. I have hopes that, when young Stiles is older, he may see the error of the Jedi ways, and join us in our fight for the end of corruption in the Senate and in the Order — he is a bright child, and he will see it for himself soon enough.”

It’s Jon’s turn to nod then.

“If he does, you will have an ally in us.”

“I am positive that, when the time comes, Stiles will make the right choices,” Peter leans forward, then, some of his formality melting away, replaced by a sense of urgency, “And as future allies, Chief Stilinski, let me help. Let me help General Hale. We can take him into the best Medical Care facilities of the Galaxy, we will build him back up again, so he can continue on fighting for his people. Allow me to help him, so he can die of old age, or in battle, and not stranded on a bed, because of a fatality that should never have happened.”

His eyes are bright and urgent, and Jon looks at Derek again, even unconscious he looks like he is suffering, “Let me help him,” Peter begs once more, and Jon looks back at him before nodding once.

He would not be able to live with himself if he had answered anything else.

 **X**           

When Stiles had come into their lives, eight years before Deaton took him in as his padawan, he would never have thought to take the young man’s training himself. He was an exquisite swordsman, an accomplished member of the council, and a well-known Jedi Master, but he was also getting on in his years, and after one particular failed attempt at training a young padawan, he had no desire to try his hand at it again.

He has had successes among his padawans, of course, but he also had a major failure, and the memory of the failed padawan still haunts him to this day and maybe that is the reason why he had never really _connected_ to Stiles the way he knows Master and Padawan should.

Deaton sees too much of Count Peter in the boy to be comfortable around him, his inquisitive nature getting the best of him most times, and making Deaton’s life particularly difficult when they are on an assignment when obedience is the first order of business.

Other than that, Stiles is a padawan many Masters would wish to have — dedicated and hardworking, no challenge is too big for him to conquer. He has an acute sense of strategy, which Deaton has a feeling comes from his Kaleesh heritage on his father’s side, and is loyal to a fault to whoever manages to be considered a friend by him. Even so, that circle isn’t a big one, as Stiles is slow to trust in others — the Jedi Master Alis-Sen and Jedi Knight Eri-Ka are the closest ones to him near his age range, having come from the same clan, but even they are years older than he is.

The one exception to that rule is Mordred, to whom Stiles had taken a liking ever since the man was a padawan bringing young Stiles into Coruscant. The man is often off-world, however, training his own padawan, and Deaton feels that the distance between him and his own student isn’t only on his own account — Deaton had taken Stiles in for fearing no other Master available at the time would be able to keep up with the boy’s energy and tenacious nature, and so wouldn’t be able to give him the education he deserves; Stiles had accepted to become his padawan because Mordred was already responsible for Merlin, and he couldn’t train two pupils at once.

Despite their differences and whatever sense of detachment they have towards each other, they’ve been working soundly together for three years — Stiles works finely within the Force, attuned to it remarkably well for one of only fifteen years of age, and Deaton relishes in having a pupil who always seeks knowledge for himself, sometimes not needing to be told to search for something new or study a particular theory or technique before seeking them out independently.

Stiles, as a Jedi and as a padawan, but more than that, as an _individual_ , is very independent. It worries Deaton as much as it makes him proud, but that is what all Masters feel towards their padawans, no matter what stage of their training they are at, or how good they are in their studies: there’s always room for improvement.

As he comes back from the meeting with Chancellor Uther, he isn’t surprised to find his padawan testing his swordsmanship against Alis-Sen — the Sentinel is a Security Expert at the Temple, but, coming from a long line of warriors, she can more than hold her own against his padawan. Stiles is good enough at it — his footwork needs more practice, but he’s naturally adaptable, which is a skill that can’t be learned easily. Maybe, when he is older, he will even try his hand at _Vaapad_ , but Deaton has been reticent in trying to teach him the technique, as many had come to associate it with the Dark Side. Stiles is well on his way to master the _Makashi_ form, but the only way Deaton had managed to convince the young boy to study it was to mention it was Count Peter’s favored form. Even then, the child, starting to learn more advanced forms by then, twelve years of age, had made Deaton promise to allow him to study _Ataru_ when he is older, which Deaton had relented on by the sheer persistence of his student.

If only he applied himself with the same fervor to his meditations, he would be less likely to lose focus in the middle of a fight, as he seems to be doing right then.

Master Alis-Sen favored the defensive style of fighting, seeming to be having fun with Stiles’s relentless attacks, his blue lightsaber raining strikes on her orange one, which she parries with practiced ease. Finding an opening, finally, Stiles goes for a more aggressive attack, only to be deterred at the last moment by Master Alis-Sen’s moving unexpectedly and making him lose his footing, his lightsaber flying from his hand to the other side of the training room as he falls down on his back with the force of the impact.

“Not fair!” the young padawan yells from the floor, jumping up with help from the Force to make it a bit more acrobatic than strictly necessary, and Deaton shakes his head at his antics.

Children.

“Just because an opponent seems to favor one technique, it does not mean they won’t change it midway to confuse you, young padawan,” he lectures, approaching the two of them. Alis-Sen smiles in greeting, more reserved than she had been only seconds before, and takes a step away from Stiles, who sighs and shakes his head, bringing his lightsaber to his hand with a small wave of his hand — sometimes, Deaton has the distinctive feeling telekinesis is Stiles’s strongest suit out of sheer laziness.

His padawan doesn’t complain about being lectured, though — he takes a deep breath and bows formally to the Sentinel, a playful smile on his lips the whole time.

“Thank you for taking the time to spar with me, Master Alis-Sen,” he tells her, voice solemn and controlled.

The female Twi’lek bows back at him, her long blue limbs all grace in the movement.

“It was my pleasure, padawan Stiles,” she tells him, clearly holding herself back from laughing, and Deaton pleads the Force for strength — either he is getting too old for this, or he is, indeed, surrounded by children.

The Sentinel leaves then, telling Stiles to look for her and Eri-Ka later if he wants to train some more, and the padawan thanks her before turning to follow Deaton back to their quarters.

Much of their time is spent off Coruscant, but, being in the council, Deaton has to be back much more frequently than many of the other Masters, and that puts Stiles in the unique position of having access to all forms of training in the Temple as well as training offworld. He is glad his pupil takes this as a chance to improve his skills, but it also creates boundary issues — a normal padawan wouldn’t have as much access to the inner workings of the Temple as Stiles does and that isn’t always a positive thing when coupled with Stiles’s innate curiosity about any and everything.

“How did the meeting with the Chancellor go, Master?”

Deaton doesn’t answer right away, and Stiles fidgets a bit until he notices Deaton frowning at him.

“Not as well as expected — King Arthur Pendragon had another attempt on his life as he was arriving.”

“Master Alis-Sen told me — who do they think was responsible?”

Deaton hesitates, and his padawan seems to sense his uneasiness, frowning at him as they get to their quarters, the Master Jedi taking off his cloak and setting it on a chair.

“King Arthur seems to think Count Peter is behind it.”

“He would never!” Stiles says, indignantly, “He was a Jedi, he would never assassinate someone in cold blood, no matter his political affiliations!”

“Control your emotions, young padawan,” Deaton chastises him, but he was already expecting the outburst — there aren’t many people who would get Stiles to act out like this, but Count Peter is one of them, “We all said the same — it seems absurd that Count Peter would stoop so low as to try an attempt at a King’s life from far away. It lacks his usual elegance, even if he had strayed that far from the ways of the Jedi, but we do not believe it was him.”

Stiles is still scowling when Deaton looks back at him, and he knows any conversation with the boy now would be useless.

“We have much to investigate, but first I must attend to matters of the council. You should use this time to meditate, Stiles. It is clear you still need the practice.”

The padawan scowls, but Deaton merely raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed and much too used to the ways of his padawan to care at his seeming aggressiveness.

“Yes, Master,” he ends up saying sullenly, and Deaton nods at him before leaving again.

He doesn’t want to believe Peter would, indeed, attack Arthur Pendragon, but much has happened in the past ten years for him to dismiss it so easily.

He has a feeling this is just the beginning of a much bigger problem they won’t see themselves rid of anytime soon.

**X**

Stiles absolutely loves being a Jedi. The heady feel of the Force in every living thing, the knowledge that their sole purpose as beings is to defend others, training everyday as hard as he can, knowing that Deaton — as much as the man keeps his distance from him — trusts him to always do better, push himself harder, advance at a faster pace, it all makes him happy and gives him a sense of purpose: he has a place in the whole vast universe, he has an objective, something to look forward to.

He cannot imagine any other life than the one he’s living right now.

When he was little, recently come into the Temple, and still missing his home planet, he liked to fantasize about what kind of life he could have had there — growing up to be like his father, lead their village, be best friends with Lydia for all his life, fight alongside General Hale when the time for war came. Little by little those fantasies died away, replaced by the understanding that a life like that would have no purpose — what would he really be accomplishing there, in Kalee? Defending from one enemy to have another waiting just a few months later, always fighting, always at battle, always losing people and lives to meaningless wars.

Training to be a Jedi made his whole life make sense, and the older he got, the more he understood that, and appreciated what Masters Deaton, Gaius and Nimueh had done for him — Kalee is, nowadays, mostly a faraway place he remembers in vague memories: his real life is within the Temple by Master Deaton, training offworld, helping keep the peace, dreaming of becoming a Master one day, maybe even have a place in the Council. 

He does miss his father, sometimes. He misses his mother, and Lydia to an extent. Not enough that he’d give up on his life in Coruscant for them, but he does — there is a part of him that will forever try to remember them, because he doesn’t want to forget. What happened to him as child is a great part of what motivates him into being as good as he can possibly be as a padawan, so he can make sure no child will ever go through something like that again — but there is precisely where his problems with the Order start.

He loves being a Jedi and serving the Force — he is not very sure the Order upholds what it should.

He does have more common sense than to speak those concerns aloud, especially where Deaton can hear him: the man is a firm believer in all that the Jedi Council decides, and mistrusts anyone who goes against this way of thinking — it wouldn’t do for his own padawan to voice such opinions.

When he had arrived at the Temple, four years old, bruised, traumatized, and afraid, he had held onto the few people who had, in his eyes, taken him away from his home and his family, but, at the same time, saved him — as young as he was back then, he knew his life would never be the same. He had resented his father for giving him away so easily, and he had felt rejected and afraid for a long time, blaming Deaton for not having a normal home anymore, but as he grew up, he had understood what had happened in his home planet — much of it had been explained to him by Count Peter, in ways Stiles, as a child, hadn’t fully grasped, but now he is beginning to understand.

What had happened to Kalee — decimated by politic maneuvers — had happened to many, many other systems and planets before. Profit comes before anything else in their government, and as much as Stiles could understand the need for the Jedi Order to support the Republic, he could also see its failures as easily as breathing, and he had long wondered why no one was doing anything. 

The older he gets, though, the more he understands that seeing the failings in something doesn’t mean something can be done to help it. Deaton, and Kilgharrah, and Gaius — the whole council — they had been working with whatever it was given to them, because _not_ serving the Republic would mean the fall of civilization as they know it, and the weight of that kind of change would make things much, much worse than they had been for as long as he could remember.

Members leaving, such as Count Peter, had their political reasons, and Stiles understands the man, he truly does, but he also thinks that to really help, he must be at the heart of the Order, and that is why he stays, he trains, and never gives up.

Many Jedi firmly believe in an old Prophecy, the Chosen One and their savior, but Stiles knows Master Deaton puts little stock in such things, at least where the Chosen One is concerned.

Merlin is talented, of that there is no doubt, and Mordred is a superb Master and teacher, as every Jedi who knows him can attest to, but Deaton doesn’t believe the man is the Chosen One, and, as much as they disagree on many things, as much as Stiles envies the easy comradery between Merlin and Mordred, and many other pairs of Master and Padawan, on that he and Deaton agree with no need for discussion, although for different reasons.

Master Deaton doesn’t think _Merlin_ is the chosen one. His own prejudice for his admittance into the Order, being older than recommended, Mordred deciding to train him with or without the Order, following through with what his own Master had promised Merlin, all of that makes Merlin untrustworthy as far as Deaton is concerned.

Stiles’s doubts about the whole prophecy are of a much more practical order: he simply doesn’t believe a single person can turn the whole _Galaxy_ around just because some old book says so. He has a hard time believing a single man, no matter how extraordinary, how talented, and how well trained, can right all the wrongs accumulated for decades of corruption and misgivings.

He does know his vision of Merlin is somewhat skewed: for a long time he hadn’t liked the other padawan out of jealousy alone. Mordred was supposed to be _his_ Master, and suddenly, all everyone could think about was Merlin, and Stiles was left behind like a second thought. As his training progressed, however, as he learned what it really meant to be a Jedi, what it took to completely fulfill his path as a Keeper of the Peace, he had learned to let go of such petty feelings, and as much as Deaton tells him he needs to practice his meditations more, he has come a very long way from the terrified, and later on, jealous, child he had been. Also, he has come to realize what it meant for _Master Deaton_ to have agreed to train him — the man is a legend all on his own, creator of a new form of lightsaber technique, member of the High Council, considered the best swordsman in the entire Order: being trained by him is an honor, and the older Stiles gets, the more he has come to appreciate all the advantages that being his padawan brought — not the least of which is that he has access to much more information about the goings on within the Order, the Council and the Senate than any other padawan his age would have.

And if there is one thing Stiles appreciates is information.

His outburst earlier defending Count Peter cost him much valuable knowledge that Master Deaton would now be reticent to share with him, and that annoys him to no end — Deaton _respects_ Count Peter, even if they are, now, on opposite sides of a political conflict, and that is also the view the Council has of him: someone who has different political affiliations, but not a killer, not a murderer. King Arthur, Stiles is certain, was making baseless accusations against a man who is only doing what Arthur himself is doing: defending his beliefs.

Stiles knows he’s young, and he also knows he doesn’t understand as much of the inner working of the Order or the Senate as he would like, but he does believe that, given the choice, he would seriously consider whatever it is that Count Peter defends with his Separatist Movement, if only it wasn’t against everything his Order defends. He is always waiting for the day when he’ll hear that Kalee has joined the Separatist Movement, but even when he thinks about it in that light, his heart heavy with the thought of his home world, he knows he would face them as enemies if need be, because his first and foremost loyalty is to the Order — he knows they have many misgivings, he knows there is much they need to change, but he also knows that this change needs to come from inside out. It won’t be given to them on a silver platter, handed over as a gift by a prophesized savior: it will be done by each and all Jedi who fight for what is right, who swear to uphold their utmost duty to keep the peace and help the needy.

He thinks of all that before finally being able to focus on his meditation, and a long time goes by before he finally opens his eyes, to see that Master Deaton has come back, and his face is like a storm: something is very, very wrong.

Deaton isn’t one to show concern externally — he is more of a quiet, silently judging kind of person. The fact that he _looks_ troubled is more than enough for Stiles to know whatever happened in the Council is serious.

“Is everything okay, Master?” Stiles asks still sitting down in the middle of the common room of their quarters, tilting his head to the side a little.

Deaton sighs instead of answering right away, and Stiles gets even more worried.

“What do you know of the Sith, Stiles?” Deaton asks instead of answering, a considering look on his face.

Stiles thinks it through before answering — he knows Deaton doesn’t want him to define what a Sith _is_ , or their history of wars with them and how they ended, the man had taught him all of that himself, after all. He wants Stiles’ opinion on the Sith as a philosophy, as a group. An opinion on what they stand for — Deaton and Stiles both know he has thought about it more than once ever since he understood what the word meant, even if they had never openly discussed it.

“I know they give in to the Dark Side of the Force, and use the most basic and negative emotions to draw power into them, and bend it to their will.” His answer is simple and to the point, not wishing to overstep and forfeit his chance to find out what really is going on in his Master’s head as he had earlier with his outburst about Count Peter.

Deaton nods, his face still pensive.

“What do you think of the Dark Side of the Force?”

“I think it can be seductive, and it must be powerful,” he starts, voice strong and firm, “It’s easier to hate than to love, it’s easier to make one cry than to make them laugh. To draw power from such simple acts must be addictive, because it is so simple, so uncomplicated.”

“Don’t you ever wonder why all of us don’t draw power from it, then? It is, indeed, much easier than the Light Path.”

“ _Because_ it is so simple, _precisely_ because it is so easy,” Stiles starts, thinking his way through it, “A practitioner would have all the power he could possibly want at his disposal so easily he wouldn’t stop to consider the consequences of using it. That is why a Dark or a Grey Jedi still has that name, but the Sith are another thing altogether — to lose oneself into the Dark Side, not caring about the damages it can do, not concerning themselves with how much it can hurt everyone around them, that is the risk.”

“You do understand then why the Light Side shuns possessions and attachments, forbids marriage and others bonds to their members?”

Stiles nods, looking down, puzzling it out.

“Because such attachments would lead to an abundance of basic emotions. Romantic love leads to jealousy and passion; bonds between lovers or family would lead to fear and sadness, and it would make one stray from the path of the Light much more easily, for they would have access to many of those basic feeling in which the Dark Side thrives.”

“So you do understand why we lead the life we do, denying ourselves what many would think as harmless things?”

“I do, Master.”

“And haven’t you ever resented us for taking you away from your family? For doing what we all did to Kalee?”

Stiles looks up in surprise at that, for a moment thinking his Master had been reading his mind, but he relaxes soon after — he has nothing to hide.

“When I was little, having just arrived here, and feeling alone and scared, I did resent it, but even then, I never thought of going back. This is my path, and my choice, and I may be young still, and have much to learn, but I know this is where I was always meant to be.”

“Your life would have been much easier had you stayed,” his Master points out, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his lips.

“Easy was never what I aimed for.”

Deaton’s smile grows a little less faint, before he sighs again, leaning forward, coming closer to where Stiles still is on the floor.

“When Mordred had to take Merlin as his apprentice, I fully expected Count Peter to take you on when the time came — I believe you did too,” he looks at Stiles and he nods, it’s no secret he liked the man and was close to him for the time they had both lived in Coruscant, “With his leaving the Order altogether, there was no one else to train you, because you had — still have — the makings of a great Jedi. To train one with such potential is always a big responsibility, but one that, I am sure, many Masters would have jumped at the chance to take. However, the Council as a whole felt that, with your background, you needed someone older and more experienced, and your training fell onto me, and my first reaction was to refuse,” Stiles stares at him with wide eyes, almost betrayed — they may not be the best of friends, not have the easy comradery Merlin and Mordred have, for instance, but Deaton is still his Master, and hearing that still hurts. Deaton shakes his head then, his almost smile back on his face for a second, “Not because of _you_ , child, but because of me.”

Stiles keeps staring at him, having been training with the man for long enough to know that he isn’t done talking.

“Have I ever told you about the last padawan I trained before taking you on?”

Stiles shakes his head just for show, because both of them know Deaton hasn’t.

“I trained one Jedi before him — you’ve met her, Master Jen-Fer Blake. She is in the High Council, and right now, she is preparing to go on a mission in Haruun Kal, my home planet, to train the many Force sensitive found amongst their population. I couldn’t be more honored to have been her Master, and yet, my next padawan is what made me fearful of training you.” The man pauses, and Stiles barely dares breathe — his Master isn’t an open man, and he never gives any information apart from the strictly necessary, even to his padawan. Stiles is now curious as to what could have happened to the padawan that would make a man like Deaton fear anything at all, “He was young, and eager and powerful, and once we assumed he was ready to begin his Trials, I took him to a devastated planet, where once the Sith had inhabited, all of them gone from it for a long time, so he could begin his Trial of the Spirit. Once there, he could feel the Dark Force in every inhabitant, every building, and every stone. He told me the whole planet was overtaken by the Dark Force, and led me to an old Temple of the Sith when I asked him to find us our enemy. There was no Sith energy left in that building, and so I left him after telling him to find his enemy inside that temple.”

Stiles barely dares breathe when Deaton is telling the story, the man’s eyes far away, and full of sadness.

“When he did approach what he felt was an enemy, he found me,” Stiles has to swallow dryly hearing that, not even able to imagine what it would be like to fail so absolutely in such a trial, a failure that Deaton must have felt as his own, “He failed his first Trial for being so full of darkness, having so much Dark Force in him, he could no longer see the difference between Light and Dark, enemy and friend,” Deaton looks right into his eyes, then, calm and serious as ever, “That is why I was afraid to train you, to take you in: I had taken in a boy who was raised in the Temple from birth, ready to be a Jedi and walk the path of the Light his whole life, and he turned into a servant of the Dark. What would I do to a boy come into our hands through death and war, taken away from a broken planet, after witnessing what you had witnessed as a child?”

Stiles wants to feel angry or betrayed, for having been judged on his past as if it is a failure he is at fault for, but he can’t. All he can do is feel compassion towards this man who is doing his best by him, and tries his hardest to keep to the designs of their Order, no matter his personal feelings and opinions.

Instead of feeling betrayed for being considered potentially dark for a past he had no control over, Stiles feels grateful.

“You would make him see that his past doesn’t define him, only his present choices do,” Deaton looks at him, then, and Stiles dares to give him a smile, honest and open, “And, if he may be so bold, Master, maybe he would tell you the very same thing: people’s mistakes are their own, no matter how hard you try and teach them. The kind of Jedi we grow up to be has much to do with you, because you trained us, and you gave it your best, but even then, it is our choices that makes us who we are. You may try and guide us towards the good ones, but you can’t really stop us from making the bad.”

Deaton chuckles quietly, shaking his head.

“Most times, in between your lack of discipline for meditation, and your love for using your powers for the most inane things, I forget why it was that Mordred and Morgana both thought you belonged to the Heliost Clan.”

Stiles shrugs, a rueful smile on his face as he gets up, dusting off his robes.

“It works for me,” he says, his voice calm and amused.

Deaton considers him for a while, and ends up shaking his head fondly.

“I suppose it really does,” he pauses, and Stiles waits, fearing the worst when his Master’s face is once again closed off and worried, “The Sith are back — their presence is clouding Coruscant and the Force everywhere. We must be ready, Stiles, for whatever is coming will be as bad as any of us can remember, and it won’t be an easy challenge to face.”

“We’ll do our best, Master.”

Deaton nods at him, but he can’t help but feel that his Master seems to think that their best may not be good enough.

**X**

As a Jedi, and a member of the High Council, Deaton always tries his best to be aware of his failings, so that he can correct them, learn from them, and not repeat them. As a Master, that is something he does twice as hard — not only for his own failings, but also because being responsible for another Jedi, their first perceptions of the Force, their first steps onto what will always be a hard path.

As a Master to Jen-Fer Blake, Deaton had been calm and patient, and training her was as easy as could be, for they were similar in many aspects, if he was a touch more belligerent than the Aruzan Guardian had been.

As his second attempt, he tried his best to empathize with his pupil, and he had thought himself successful until the very end when the enormity of his failings became clear not only to him but to the whole Council.

As Stiles’s Master, he had done his best while keeping his distance, and as much as the boy reassured him that he is a good Master, as much Light as Stiles shows to have in his temper, and as much as Deaton is sure he wouldn’t stray from the path of Light, he can’t help but think that his distance is the very thing that made sure Stiles is on the right Path — either that, or his Padawan is absolutely right, and no one but their own person is responsible for their Path, no matter what kinds of teachings they had in the past.

When he sees Mordred’s padawan boarding away to guard King Arthur to a safe place, he hopes it isn’t true. If they could be sure, absolutely sure, that Merlin would follow his Master’s footsteps, that he would have Mordred’s sense of right and wrong, his determination to follow through with what is fair and correct, Deaton himself would be a much more content man — however, when Mordred himself expresses his doubts about Merlin’s ability to accomplish his mission, Deaton does his best to reassure him.

May the Force guide the padawan into the correct path — for all of their sakes.

**X**

Ever since their conversation about his past padawans, Stiles and Deaton’s relationship has much improved, to Stiles’s contentment. However, no matter how much easier it has been to live with the man every day, Deaton is as worried as Stiles has ever since him, seeming to be in a constant state of alert ever since Merlin and Mordred took off on their respective missions.

Being only fifteen, Stiles isn’t fully aware of what is really happening with the Order right then, or what the Senate has to do with it, but when Deaton comes for him, telling him to get ready to take off to Geonosis right then, Stiles is almost expecting it.

They have been to battles before, it’s not the first time he will see action in the name of the Order, and if it were only a rescue mission, as he is told by Deaton when he picks him up, he would be perfectly ready — however, it’s not simply a rescue mission, and they aren’t just going to get Mordred, Merlin and King Arthur out of trouble.

There are two hundred and twelve Jedi heading into Geonosis, and Stiles can’t help but be afraid — it’s not the most afraid he has ever felt in his life, he still remembers being four, having no one to protect him and watching all of his friends die at the hands of the Yam’rii — because whatever it is they are facing is massive and daunting. He thinks back on the conversation he had with Deaton, how his Master had told him about the Sith clouding the Force, and he closes his eyes, asking the Force for guidance.

Sitting in the ship, he feels Deaton take a seat beside him — his Master’s presence comforting by his side.

“How are you feeling, my young padawan?”

Stiles gives him a rueful smile.

“It’s not our first battle, Master.”

“I don’t think any battle we’ve been to before can compare to whatever it is we’ll face when we arrive in Geonosis,” Deaton’s voice is serious, and Stiles faces the man, waiting for whatever will come next, “I wouldn’t have brought you along if I didn’t have absolute faith in your abilities as a future Guardian and as a Jedi. However, I have something to tell you that might cloud your judgment, and if that is the case, then I will ask you to use your utmost ability to put your feelings aside, or then to stay behind and help with the wounded.”

Stiles frowns — a part of him is glad his Master is giving him the choice, considering him mature enough to make this decision by himself instead of making the decision _for_ him, but another part of him already knows what the man will say before he even has the chance to complete his thought.

“Count Peter is responsible for whatever it is we are facing, isn’t he?”

Deaton nods gravely, and Stiles looks down, taking a deep breath, centering himself before staring into his Master’s eyes.

“No matter our personal feelings, my loyalty is to the Order and what we have all vowed to defend. We are heading into battle to face an evil bigger than I could ever thought imaginable, and my place is by the side of my Master. Even if I once held Count Peter in high regard, he is no longer the man he once was if any of the atrocities the Senate has accused him of doing are true, and if the Order is going against him, then they must be.”

Deaton doesn’t smile. His expression doesn’t change, and he still looks grave, and somber, and ready for battle, but his eyes shine with pride and, for Stiles, there could be no higher praise.

“I do not give you credit enough, padawan Stiles.”

Stiles grins cheekily at him.

“I will remember that next time I ask you to let me train the _Ataru_ form.”

Deaton nods at him, seeming almost amused, and leaves him to his meditation — now more needed than ever before.

As afraid as he is, he cannot let fear be the master of him. As sad as he is to be going into his first great battle facing someone he once considered almost like a father to him, he can’t let sadness take him over — he is a Jedi, and there is no fear, no sadness, no doubt: there is only the Force.

May the Force be with them all.

**X**

As prepared as Stiles thinks he’s going to be to face Count Peter, when the time comes, he is glad Master Deaton has trusted him enough to send him with Eri-Ka to attack the droid army from the stands — far away, in the archducal box, he sees Deaton tapping Count Peter on the shoulder, and he takes a deep breath, centering himself before the signal — when Deaton gestures around him, Stiles lets the hood of his gray cloak fall down, his blue lightsaber lighting up in his hand, just as a hundred other Jedi do the same all around them, in the whole arena, another hundred rushing to the center of it, protecting the three people they had come to defend and rescue.

The floor is suddenly flooded by thousands of battle droids and, from that point on, Stiles doesn’t really pay attention to any more details, losing himself in the Force and the battle.

He deflects bolts coming from the guns around him, taking down as many battle droids as he can before having even come close to one of them, Eri-Ka’s yellow lightsaber slicing through droids easily as she jumps around — all around him, Jedi are fighting the battle droids, and they seem to be making good headway, if only there weren’t _so many_ of them. For every droid they take down, ten others seem to take their place, and soon enough he’s been cornered into the arena as well as the remaining Jedi with them. Master Deaton is fighting back to back with Mordred, and Stiles does his best to keep up, his best not to look at the fallen Jedi around them. It’s harder than it should be — flashbacks of other bodies falling around him, smaller and helpless, and Stiles pays dearly for his distraction with a singed cloak he has to take off before it burns him. His light gray robes are dusted with blood and dirt, and he’s as tired as he’s ever been in his life, but he fights his way through till he reaches his Master and they stop fighting when the droids finally stop attacking — trapped in the middle of the arena, hundreds of lightsabers shining against the sand.

The three men they set out to rescue are among them now, and Stiles can breathe a little easier — had anyone else led this attack, he would be worried, but Master Deaton always has a way out. His hope diminishes, however, when the Jedi who had turned off the battle droids’ control center enter the arena, escorted by super battle droids. They don’t attack them immediately, standing in formation, facing the trapped Jedi.

“Master Deaton!” Count Peter calls out, his voice resonating in the whole arena, and Stiles turns along with his Master towards the sound, his chest filled with dread and sadness and fear, “Surrender, and your lives will be spared!” the man tells them, his voice sending a chill down his back, and Stiles can’t help but feel there’s something wrong with him — what he had told his Master before is the absolute true: this is not the Count Peter he had known and admired.

“We will not be hostages for you to barter with, Peter,” Master Deaton answers, and Peter tilts his head to the side.

“Not one of you? Not even you, Stiles?” his piercing blue eyes seem to be fixed on Stiles even at the huge distance between them, “Not even the child the Jedi took? Not even if your planet would be able to do what they mean to do if only you’d give up this corrupt and failed Order?”

Stiles is scared and, most of all, surprised at being singled out like that, and he can feel the eyes of the remaining Jedi on him as he straightens his back, lightsaber still shining.

“I would never stray into the Dark path you seem to follow, Peter. My place is with the Jedi Order.”

The man scoffs then, shaking his head.

“You have grown into a foolish young man, Stiles. So be it,” for a second he actually looks as if he regrets whatever it is he’s going to do next, “I am sorry, my old friend,” he starts, looking at Deaton, “You will have to be destroyed.”

Peter’s unnaturally red lightsaber shines in his hand, but before the super battle droids start their attack, six gunships descend onto the arena, and Deaton grabs Stiles by the arm.

“Quick, inside!”

Stiles runs as fast as his legs can carry him, jumping onto one of the gunships, his Master following quickly — all around them, Republic Gunships are coming: thousands of them, with tens of thousands of white armored soldiers pouring out, taking over the arena and climbing up the stands.

“The Clone Army,” Deaton tells him, and Stiles can only gape at the enormity of the Army helping them.

There is no doubt now — they are at war.


	6. Haruun Kal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't do this a lot, but there's a soundtrack for this chapter - there are links for the songs for each part, and also the titles at the beginnings, if you'd like to follow. The art in it was made by wonderful Cora <3
> 
> This is one of my favorite chapters, and I'm very proud of it, as I usually SUCK at action, and this is pretty much JUST action, and I don't actually think it sucks, so. I hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> Also: Scott. Oh, Scott 3
> 
> A couple of changes and warnings: Stiles is, by now, 19. He was 16 when the Battle of Geonosis took place, three years before any of this happens, and has been training with Deaton for 7 years now. 
> 
> Also, our war didn't last 3 years like in the movies, because, well, why would we abbreviate suffering, right? Nah.
> 
> Ours lasts ten years. So this is just pretty much the beginning.
> 
> Onto the chapter! \o\

_ This Is Gallifrey, Murray Gold _

Warfare shouldn’t be a matter of the Jedi Order — not in the scale that it becomes after that first battle in Geonosis.

The Clones, trusted allies and helpers that they are, become a constant throughout the Galaxy, treated at first as no better than battle droids, but little by little, they gain a better status, even if it still bothers Stiles that they aren’t viewed as real _people_ , but as means to an end, tools to be used and discarded.

He considers, from time to time, what will happen to the Great Army of the Republic, made up by Clone Troopers alone, once the war is over — will they be freed? Destroyed? It scares him in two different ways, one more terrifying than the other: that no one had considered what would come of the people who have been helping them fight this war for three years already or that the people responsible for that very decision were so far from seeing an end to this war that they hadn’t bothered to even think of a solution.

Being Master Deaton’s padawan, Stiles has spent much time in Coruscant ever since the war had been declared three years before, with Chancellor Uther gathering power as time went by, the war getting more serious, and casualties growing every single hour of every single day.

Deaton is training him to be a Guardian, it’s what they’ve always focused his training on, but Stiles has been given about a hundred odd jobs in the Temple in the past three years, training with whoever is available to teach him — finally able to study the _Ataru_ form _,_ he spent as much time practicing as he did working along Slicers, security professionals and Guardians around the Temple, simply because there aren’t _enough Jedi in the Temple_.

Off and away they go, defending the whole Galaxy, spread thin among their ranks. As much as Stiles likes to think he is handling their missions as best as he can, every time he and his Master are off on their own assignments, he can’t help but feel like he’s letting the man down constantly. It’s not a feeling he particularly enjoys, and it only spurs him into trying harder and harder to prove himself a worthy padawan — which could be considered a positive thing — but it is taking its toll on him and Deaton both. Stiles striving constantly to be better, do better, be worthy and _important_ , and Deaton not knowing how to let his student know he _already is_.

He walks briskly through the corridors of the Temple towards the Council chambers, gray cloak trailing behind him, his braid falling over his left shoulder, having received a call on his beacon as he was helping Alis-Sen with setting up the schematics for a security perimeter to be installed on one of their basis in Haruun Kal, Deaton’s own home planet, where the Force sensitive presence is strong and, therefore, a sure target for the Separatists — divide and conquer seem to be their motto.

As he approaches the chamber, he takes a second to compose himself — nowadays, it’s as if a cloud has set over Coruscant, and everywhere he looks there is mistrust, anger, and a sense of urgency, and he tries his very best not to let it affect him. Master Deaton had told him it was the Dark Side, always present, latent, in the heart of the Republic — Stiles can feel it too, like a layer over the whole planet, around the Temple and surrounding the Senate building. He feels it so intensely, he can almost _see it_ , and Deaton tells him it’s possible he has an aptitude for sensing a disturbance in the Force more acutely than most, that it is a gift. Stiles doesn’t feel particularly gifted, when all it does is make him even more aware of how badly the war seems to be going all the time, at least for those following it through the HoloNet in Coruscant; even more acutely attuned to the fact that the one place that should be the center of peace in the Republic is just as filled with the Dark Side and its lower feelings as the rest of the Galaxy, torn apart by war, even if not everyone could see it.

Breathing in and out deeply, he tries to find peace within himself, and only finds inner turmoil, a feeling that is not only his, but seems to be shared by everyone around him lately. Masking his uneasiness as best as he can, he pushes the doors to the Council meeting room open and enters, finding most of the High Council present, their eyes trained on a transmission in the middle of the room.

“Come in, Stiles,” Deaton’s voice is grave and somber, and it wouldn’t be anything new if it weren’t for the absolute broken tone he has tried his best to conceal.

He walks to the man, and his Master gestures towards the light blue lights making up the transmission they are all watching without once glancing at him.

In it, a warrior in a dark cloak moves against five or six Korunnai, and Stiles frowns when they don’t fight back, but flee in obvious fear and despair. The image has no sound — either it has been lost or muted — but the one Korun who fell behind his companions is suddenly pierced by what is obviously a lightsaber.

The warrior, so far with their face hidden in the folds of their cloak, moves a step behind, and Stiles gets a sickly feeling in his stomach, knowing before the hood even falls who’ll be behind it — Jen-Fer Blake, Master Deaton’s former padawan, a monstrous smile deforming her otherwise beautiful face, her dark hair falling down on her shoulders, as she watches the fallen Korun die a painful death.

He dares not speak, the transmission beginning anew after a second of static, the Korunnai running, falling, being hunted down by Jen-Fer, who seems to be doing it for the sole purpose of the hunt.

“Since the beginning of the Clone Wars, Haruun Kal has been a point of interest to both the Republic and the Separatist movement, largely, we believe, because of the high number of Force sensitives residing there and the control it could allow one to have over the Gevarno Loop,” Master Gaius stars explaining, and Stiles knows it’s for his benefit alone — Deaton’s eyes are still glued to the transmission, repeating over and over in the center of the room, “We sent Master Jen-Fer Blake to help train the natives, and also let us know in case Separatist activity became a problem on the planet. About a year after she arrived, some dissident residents of the planet, called Balawai by the Korunnai, started supporting the Separatists, but it was kept under control — with the help of her trainees and the Korunnai Army, they were kept at bay, and, even though it was still an area of conflict, Haruun Kal was considered a Republic friendly planet, if not completely loyalist,” he stops then, transmission-Jen-Fer impaling the fallen Korun once more, and Gaius sighs loudly as they can’t help but watch.

“We’ve stopped receiving regular transmissions months ago, but that is true to many other systems, and it doesn’t always mean something has happened, only that the battle has become more intense, and time is scarce,” Master Aglain takes over the explanation, “We received this transmission this morning, when a group of Force sensitives finally found Master Jen-Fer, who had been missing for several weeks.”

“What happened?” Stiles finally gathers the courage to ask, his eyes trained on Master Deaton, waiting for the man to answer, but his Master keeps his silence.

“We aren’t sure, but whatever it is, it needs to be stopped,” Master Ruadan’s powerful voice comes, but he is not looking at Stiles, “Haruun Kal has been in a state of Civil War for too long now, and we must put an end to it. Separatist activity needs to be shut down on that planet, for the repercussions in case we do not succeed are too dire to even consider. And we need to do it before it comes to the full attention of the Senate, and they decide to exterminate the whole planet as a threat.”

“Not to mention the dangers of having a Jedi out of control in a situation such as this. Half the population of the Galaxy already mistrusts us on account of the war itself — the situation isn’t worse in Coruscant proper because we’ve been protected from attacks. We can’t let this become a real problem — it has to be dealt with _now_ ,” Master Alvarr says with finality in his voice.

“We will deal with the situation,” Master Deaton says then, his voice ringing with pain and sorrow, but also determination, “That is why I had Stiles called in, we will leave as soon as possible, and we will deal with it.”

The Council is silent at that, not out of mistrust for Deaton’s announcement, but out of respect: this is his former padawan and student, a fellow member of the council, noble Jedi and keeper of the peace.

He can’t help but think of what Deaton must be feeling — the conversation they had many years ago coming to his mind as if they had only talked about it the day before — his fear of failure, his sense of duty to the ones he’s trained: the sorrow he had showed for losing one padawan to the Dark Side, and now his most prized student seemed to have gone down the very same dark road.

“We will bring her back,” Stiles promises suddenly, not really sure of what drives him into speaking, into making a promise like that in front of the whole High Council, but he can’t help himself, “We will find a way to bring her back.”

“You have your heart in the right place, young padawan,” Master Kilgharrah, who had been silent until then, tells him, his voice kind but with a hint of warning in it, “But we must allow those we care about to pass into the Force — it is the way of the Dark Side to cling to their loved ones, and that is a Dark path to follow.”

“So we will bring her back into the Light, whatever her path may be,” he tells the dragon-like Master, and he gives Stiles a small nod, a glint in his eyes that Stiles doesn’t quite understand, and has no intention of trying.

Master Deaton gets up, nodding at the rest of the Council and striding out of the room, and Stiles hurries to follow along — it’s not very hard as he is now taller than Deaton, broader in the shoulders, with longer limbs. His hair is still kept short, but messy to go along with his braid, and his constant work in the Temple has kept him as pale as can be. 

Quickly they advance towards the landing strips, and Stiles touches his blue lightsaber attached to his belt, its weight a comforting presence on his skin.

“It seems, Stiles, as if our incursions into the field must always be surrounded by dramatic actions by people other than ourselves, and it falls onto us to go to their rescue,” Deaton talks directly at him for the first time that day, and Stiles scoffs, thinking back on the Geonosian attack, and the heroics of Mordred, Merlin and King Arthur that day, remembered and revered, as his and all the other Jedi’s actions became background noise.

“As long as all our battles are that successful, I do not mind being the rescue party, Master.”

Deaton looks at him, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“You do well to keep to that philosophy, young padawan. Do not let courageous actions and great deeds derail you from what is important, even when you see yourself on your own, as a Knight and, hopefully, a Master.”

Stiles laughs at that, shaking his head as they board the gunship that will take them to Haruun Kal.

“Even Morgana herself wouldn’t be able to See that far away into the future, Master,” he jokes, knowing quite well Deaton has many doubts about his padawan’s ability to make the right choices if left alone for too long. He had, of course, had a few solo missions along the years, but nothing too big or too difficult — Deaton likes to keep him close, and Stiles is sure it’s because the man doesn’t fully trust him on his own yet.

His Master doesn’t answer, just goes on to check with the pilots, and Stiles sits in his cabin to meditate.

It’s going to be a long trip and an even longer battle, and he wants to be as prepared for it as he can be.

**X**

_ I Am the Doctor, Murray Gold_

Haruun Kal is not a hospitable planet — from afar, the whole place looks like a vast ocean, but in reality, most of the available surface of it is covered in toxic gas and residue, air heavy with nitrogen and other chemicals that would be deadly for a human in a matter of minutes. Several species, of course, thrived in such environment, but, curiously, 96% of its population was made up entirely by humans or human-like species, and they had to find somewhere to live.

It is clear to anyone coming into the planet that the place itself had never been natural for human living — some scholars theorized that its human colonization as well as its high percentage of Force sensitive population came from a crashed ship during the Sith War, who would have been the first people to colonize the land. Such theory could also explain the four pillars of the Korunnai society, _Honor, Duty, Family, Herd_. Their natural inclination to discipline and obedience made for a long tradition of honored Jedi Masters and Knights in the Temple in Coruscant, and the planet itself was considered Jedi friendly, even in troubled times such as the war going on right now.

The tall planes, on the top of mountains and plateaus, reaching high into the atmosphere, were the only places where human life could evolve and, therefore, they are where most of the population live. The native Korunnai, also called Uplanders, are, even after all these years, loyal to the Republic and the Jedi — but many newcomers to the planet disagreed with that vision, something that is becoming more and more common as the war is dragged on and on, and Stiles can’t really blame them. That part of the population, called Balawai, or Downfolk, as an insult by the Korunnai, had sided with the Separatists, and founded a whole government system based on it — and that was how a true Civil War had started in the middle of the already ongoing conflict of the Clone Wars.

The reason why the Jedi hadn’t interfered further with the civil war is mainly political — as all things gone wrong seem to be lately — and Jen-Fer’s presence alone was already a risk in her training the Force sensitive living on the planet. Now, though, with a Jedi out of control and a war that wouldn’t be over any time soon without external help, the High Council had decided to interfere, and Stiles understands that, he does.

He just wishes politics didn’t have to come before lives being lost all the time. If they had been able to come sooner, or in greater numbers, the war, at least _this_ war, could have been dealt with in a day. Yet, the Jedi are already spread thin, and even if the Clone Army is as well trained as they can be, always ready to fight and even die in battle, they aren’t Jedi. Interference within the civil war had been kept to a minimum so far, mostly because there was a much bigger conflict happening, but also because it hadn’t interfered with the Republic directly in any way up till now. And as much as Stiles considers himself a Jedi first and foremost, before being anything else, he can’t help but think of Kalee’s situation all those years ago, all the suffering and the loss, and how the Senate had ended it: not with a fair and just decision, but with a politic and financial one.

Descending onto Haruun Kal with Stiles and his Master is a full garrison of Republic Clone Troopers, with whom Stiles hasn’t worked yet. Armies were kept onto the great mass of conflict and, being Deaton’s padawan has its perks, but also its downfalls: his Master is often sent into conflict to be solved by him alone, with Stiles along, of course, but never really as a part of the Army. Even holding the title of General, like all Jedi fighting alongside the Republic Army do, Deaton is more of a lone warrior. Being in the ship with so many _people_ is a foreign feeling to him, knowing he’ll be fighting along the very same person, over and over, even more so.

Useful, but a little bit creepy.

As they ready themselves for the landing — which will be done in hostile environment, he knows — he looks around the hundreds of white armored soldiers and feels so very small, and so very unimportant.

Some of his anxiety must show on his features, because Master Deaton comes to stand beside him, the hood of his cloak already up and hiding his face.

“Let the Force work through you, young padawan. Don’t lose focus, and remember that you are a part of everything that surrounds you and they are a part of you,” Deaton’s voice is calm and steady, and Stiles shakes his head for a moment, a small smile coming to his lips — his Master knows him too well.

“Of course, Master,” he agrees when he’s feeling a little less like the whole universe is way too big and he is way too small. Adjusting his cloak on his shoulders, he takes a deep breath and turns to face the man, awaiting his orders.

Usually, it’s just a basic ‘don’t wander off’, ‘stay close by’, ‘mind your enemies during battle’. This time, however, Deaton seems to steel himself before speaking.

“Our main mission here is to find and contain Jen-Fer, but that is not our _only_ mission. This conflict has gone on for long enough, and we must put an end to this war on this planet, and finish this divide among its population. That is why we didn’t come in a solo mission, but with a garrison, who’ll be stationed on this planet when we are done.” Stiles nods, understanding the plan — it’s not surprising, really, “That is why there are two of us,” Deaton continues.

Stiles looks at the man in question, not really understanding what he’s getting at: is he going to send Stiles off on his own to track down Jen-Fer? That would be an honor, of course, but he can’t really see his Master doing that.

“I will track down Jen-Fer. I know her well enough that I don’t think I’ll have trouble with it, even if it won’t be an easy task,” his Master states.

The padawan is even more confused now, a frown on his face.

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“You, padawan Stiles, will lead the battle against the Confederacy of Independent Systems’ Army, here, on Haruun Kal. This garrison is now yours to command, and you will be a stand-in general for them until the time when I get back.”

Stiles’s incredulity must have shown on his face, because Deaton gives him a rare smile.

“I don’t… I’m not ready for that!” he exclaims, voice going a little higher at the end of the sentence, and Deaton keeps on smiling at him.

“None of us is ever ready for war, young padawan, and yet here we all are, fighting for what is right and just. You will make a good leader, and these soldiers are not new to battle. Remember our goals, remember who our targets really are, and remember to protect life at all costs, be it friend or foe.” The man reaches out then, putting his hands on Stiles’s shoulders and peering into his eyes, even though his hood is still over his face, hiding his features and his astonished expression, “Don’t let fear take over, don’t allow the heat of the battle to cloud your judgment, and do not doubt yourself,” he squeezes his padawan’s shoulders briefly, “ _Believe_ in yourself, Stiles. The whole High Council does, after all, and I more so than them.”

With those parting words, he turns and leaves the ship, jumping off higher than humanly possible with the help of the Force, and Stiles is left behind, gaping at the _humongous_ change in his life as realization dawns on him.

This is his Trial.

He’s being tried for Knighthood in battle, like it is happening more and more these days.

He could become a Knight!

Or he could be kicked out of the Order altogether — he’s not ready for this!

He can’t even argue with his Master because the man is gone, and there are _thousands_ of troopers awaiting for _his_ orders, and he has no idea what to do.

Believe?

How can he just _believe_?

Easy for him to say — Master Deaton is the most accomplished warrior in the whole Order — what does _Stiles_ have to show for?

He’s never been more glad for his hood as he is when he feels one of the troopers tap him on the shoulder. Turning around, and trying to get his slight panic under control, he looks at the man, who has taken his helmet off — he’s a little shorter than Stiles, skin tanner too, and he has an uneven jaw, which could have gone completely wrong, but it seems to work on the man.

It boggles Stiles’s mind that there are _millions_ of this very same man around the whole Galaxy, fighting for them, dying for them, every day on every battle.

Not even two years ago, these men didn’t even have _names_ , they had designations. Now here he is, having to _lead them into battle_ , when he hasn’t even _been_ to a battle of this scale in his life.

“I’m Advanced Recon Commando Scott, General Stiles. We are waiting for your orders.” The clone’s voice is calm and collected, and Stiles’s first reaction is to look at the man and tell him he’s no general — he has no place being here. 

Nevertheless, Deaton left him in charge, and if there’s one person in whose judgment he had learned to trust, it’s his — Master Deaton would never have left him here if he didn’t believe Stiles was capable of leading this charge, of ending this civil war. It’s possible the man himself had made some kind of connection between Haruun Kal and Kalee, much like Stiles had done, and seen in it the perfect way for Stiles to feel like he has some control over his decisions still, even in the wake of war. Maybe his master had seen in this one battle the chance for Stiles to end at least _one_ conflict where both sides could benefit from its end, instead of crushing one people to save the other.

He straightens his back coming to his full height and centers himself in the Force — he can, and will, do this.

“What’s the situation on site?”

The ARC sighs, looking out the windows of the ship towards the mass of clouds just a few hundred miles under them.

“The natives are holding their own against the locals Separatists supporters. The last news we had, however, is that with the… issue,” he says the word as if he wants to say something else but thinks he shouldn’t, side-eying Stiles a bit, “of Master Jedi Jen-Fer, scores of battle droids have been designed to patrol the area, and the natives are having some trouble dealing with them. As much as the local population can fight, they aren’t trained soldiers. And as much as the Force sensitive folk can help…”

“They aren’t Jedi,” Stiles completes, knowing that if Jen-Fer has truly fallen into the Dark Side, nothing short of a Jedi Master will be able to stop her.

ARC Scott nods, and stares expectantly at Stiles, who takes a second to realize that he has to give an order of some kind. He can do this.

Deaton wouldn’t have left him behind if he couldn’t.

Also, this battle is his one chance to become a Knight, and he isn’t going to let that escape him.

“Our top priority here is to protect the locals, Republic supporters or not. Droids are fair game, but the hostile population must be stunned or restrained, never killed. That is our rule number one — keep casualties to a minimum.” Scott nods along again as Stiles strides to the control center of the ship, studying the maps, “Pelek Baw is their stronghold, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It has been a Confederacy controlled city for many months now, the Korunnai haven’t been able to take it back, and, when Master Jen-Fer lost control, they kept the city closed, so that the Republic supporters couldn’t seek refuge there, or call for help.”

It was a matter of shift in power, clearly. The Confederacy of Independent Systems, for all its propaganda of fairness against a corrupt Republic and claims of hatred against the Jedi, hadn’t been any less inclined to send in proper troops into Haruun Kal until they had heard of Jen-Fer’s turning — even _one_ Jedi is a Jedi too many if they are lost to the Dark Side, and now that she had apparently shifted in her alliances, they felt it was safe enough to take over the planet in a more definite manner than just having its population torn apart by war among themselves.

The fact that the Separatists are working with the Sith and the Dark Side supporters isn’t exactly news to Stiles — he lives in Coruscant, after all, the heart of the Republic, and he hears and knows things most people don’t. Now, with them sending scores of battle droids into this planet, they are sending a message: that the Jedi can’t protect the population anymore.

If this battle goes wrong, it would mean not only a loss to the Korunnai, but a shift in the trust of the whole Galaxy population against the Jedi.

He sees now why Master Deaton had left him behind — the man isn’t sure he can make the right calls, because he still believes Jen-Fer can be saved.

If he goes into battle in this mindset, as a General, as a leader of the Clone Army, Deaton would fight the whole battle counting on this one shift of power, and he knows Stiles won’t — he will fight to save the people, as many people as he can, because that is who Stiles is, that is who he has always hoped to be, even as a kid back in Kalee: someone who will save as many people as he can. Someone who won’t fail, as he had seen General Hale fail, all those years ago.

His priority suddenly changes: it’s not about saving a fallen Jedi anymore, it’s about saving Haruun Kal from conflict, and war, and death.

In a sudden rush of clarity, he now knows what he has to do.

“Scott?” he calls, turning to look at the man, even though he knows the ARC can’t see his face properly.

“Yes, General Stiles?”

“Gather the troops — we are going to storm Pelek Baw.”

**X**

_ Protectors of the Earth, Two Steps from Hell _

 

Pelek Baw is located on the continent of Korunnal Highland, in Haruun Kal. As most of the habitable planet itself, the city is surrounded by wild jungle on all sides, and sits at the summit of a mountain — large enough that thirty thousand people could live in it comfortably, and even more could settle into it in a time of war to seek refuge.

The city’s main building is the Ministry of Justice Building, where the Confederacy supporters had set up camp, turning it into a mixture of administration office, prison and judiciary system base. The building itself is right at the heart of the city at its highest point, and surrounded by many layers of battle droids and super battle droids protecting the sparse important political personnel on site. The city itself is designed around the main building — concentric circles sprawling out and out, going downwards little by little, cut out by streets of moss covered stones with low buildings two stories high at the most — anything else, and it would be hazardous for the population as much as living under city level would.

Around the city, scores of battle droids patrol the streets in scheduled times, up and down, up and down, never changing, because they are machines, and don’t actually have creative thinking, which Stiles is immensely thankful for. Surrounding the city, tall walls are guarded by super battle droids, in less quantity than around the Justice building, but, then again, super battle droids were more than enough to fend off against scarcely armed and barely trained militia — a garrison of Clone Troopers and a Jedi, however, are another matter altogether.

There are three gates into the city, one North, one South, and the main gate at West, with the only street in the whole city that follows a straight line into the main square and the Justice Building right behind it. The East side of the city is left unprotected because, right off its walls on that side, there is an abyss, an abrupt fall of about a hundred feet, with no way up other than a difficult climb no army could make without much effort — much more effort than it would take to try and take over the side gates.

The matter that worries Stiles the most is the fact that they will be literally fighting an uphill battle — to reach the Justice building, they’ll have to get past scores of droids while climbing the top of the mountain. Another advantage the droids have is the fact that they don’t actually have to _breathe_ — Stiles and his entire garrison are _humans_. The Troopers’ helmets are, of course, equipped with rebreathers, and Stiles carries one too, but the point of the matter stands that should they fail or break, they wouldn’t have a way to _get clean air_.

Because, of course, that is Stiles’s plan: invade the city coming from downland, creeping upwards as stealthily as they can, and then storm the gates, one by one.

His logic is simple, and ARC Scott had seemed to approve — attacking one gate, and then the next, and the next would divide the droids’ attention. As much as they had enough independent programming that they wouldn’t all rush to the first gate to defend it, not foreseeing an attack on the other two, they wouldn’t really have forethought enough to realize the main invasion wouldn’t be happening through any of them at all.

There are eight thousand troopers under his command, and Stiles can’t help but feel like he has no place being here, but at the same time, he feels as if he was _born_ to do it — strategy is something he has learned from Master Deaton and Master Kilgharrah. That he has discussed with Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka, but never something he has done on his own. Now, though, he _knows_ what he is doing, and he just _knows_ it will work.

It has to. He won’t fail.

They hide in the dense fog about a hundred meters from the city walls, taking their positions and getting ready for his signal — usually, the troopers would use hand signing as a means of communication, but in the dense mist, that is not an option. Taking a deep breath, Stiles gets out his lightsaber and lights it up once, before turning it off again, and waiting. He hears the soft coordinated steps towards the walls, a cadent rhythm in their march, and his heart is hammering in his chest.

Soon, the sounds of blaster bolts and the click of the droids moving fills the air, even if they can’t see them, and he counts to a hundred, and lights his weapon again, twice this time. Far away, another two thousand troopers march against the North gate. Soon, he can hear movement, the fight breaks out again after a few minutes’ march. He counts to two hundred this time, before lightening his saber three times, and the noise of four thousand troopers marching against the West gate, which must already be the most secure, seeing as it’s the shortest path into the heart of the city, fills the air around them.

Stiles doesn’t waste any time in counting now, he turns to Scott, and the ARC signs behind him, quickly following the padawan away from the walls where the thick of the fight is happening.

Fifty troopers, apart from him and Scott, follow the quickest path towards the East wall of the city, breaking into a run as the sounds of battle are sure to drown out their noise. It takes them about twenty minutes to cross the whole perimeter, and when they get there, as far away from the gates as one could be, they climb the mountain wall up carefully, with the help of grappling hooks and ropes. Finally, under the Eastern facing wall, Stiles eyes the tall construction before stepping back a couple of paces.

“Are you sure you can make it?” Scott asks, but it’s not really doubt — there is a certain teasing tone to the command’s voice, and Stiles smirks at him, even if the clone can’t see his face from behind the hood.

“I think I’ll manage,” he answers, before leaping.

The wall is about forty feet high, and Stiles needs to draw from the Force more than he’s used to, but he lands on his feet, kneeling with one leg to absorb the impact, and then looking down where his fifty companions are waiting. He makes quick work of untangling the rope ladder he was carrying on a backpack under his cloak and unfolds it, attaching the top to the wall itself.

Scott is the first one to climb up, and for a few minutes, they are more tense than they had already been, flattening themselves against the top of the wall not to be seen by the population. At three points of the city, everything is fire and blaster bolts — two of the gates had fallen, and there are now as many troopers into the city as there are droids. The simpler droids falling almost easily to the troopers, but the super battle droids are resisting fine and, for now, that’s a good thing. It wouldn’t do for their diversion to be over before they could take advantage of it.

Finally, all the troopers are on top of the wall, and Stiles brings the ladder up with a wave of his hand and then down the inside of the wall — as soon as he’s done, he leaps down and hides against the closets building as the troopers make their descent.

“Show off,” Scott tells him in a whisper when he gets to his side, and Stiles only smirks again, trying not to have as much fun as he is right then — the taste for battle leads to the Dark Side, and he can’t afford that during this mission.

Carefully, and as silently as they can possibly be, Stiles leads the fifty troopers into the inner parts of the city. Around buildings and low houses, under the tall buildings, and through the greenish streets, a few daring men and women, male and female from unknown species, and quite a few known ones, take peeks at them but otherwise ignore the movement completely, closing their doors and windows, and, Stiles knows from personal experience, praying to whatever deity they believe in that everything will be okay, and that this one battle won’t be the one to take them.

That is more than enough to make the whole sense of fun vanish from him — it’s not about the success of a takeover, it’s about saving the lives of the people who didn’t choose this.

Their crossing the city to the Justice Building takes longer than it did to go around it, because they have to be careful of movement — Stiles has no doubt they will have to fight their way in, but he hopes to avoid battle for as long as possible.

Sooner than he hoped, but way longer than he thought possible, battle droids locate them, and Stiles senses them before he actually sees them.

“Don’t harm the civilians!” he yells, waving his left hand and crashing one of the droids against two others behind it, diverting bolts with his blue lightsaber with his right one, and leaping out of the way of the blaster bolts as he’s at it.

The troopers behind him start shooting too, and they break into a run when the first score — around fifty battle droids — is dealt with. They stop soon after, the Justice Building some two hundred feet away from them — the square in front of it and all the houses near it are a battlefield. Troopers and droids fighting with blaster bolts and fists when possible, a few of the Separatist supporters fighting alongside the droids, but, mostly, it’s their troop against droids and super battle droids.

Stiles turns to the soldiers following him.

“Don’t get distracted — our goal is to invade the Justice Building. The fight outside is just a diversion.”

“Yes, sir!” Scott answers back, turning then to the troopers behind them, his right hand raised beside his head in a fist, “Find, fix, finish!”

“FIND, FIX, FINISH!” the troopers answer in unison, running to the main building in as a straight line as they can, Stiles following as soon as he gets over his shock, which takes him a second. Describing what the battlefield is like is a task which Stiles hopes to never have to undertake, because for the first time since he arrived at the Temple, he understands what his Master has always told him about letting the Force guide him into battle — he feels the bolts coming before he can see them, his deflections come when they have to, and they hit their target without harming his allies, not even once. Jumping around, escaping the super battle droids who seem to notice _something_ is not the same with the one warrior they can’t seem to hit, not a singe to his cloak, he doesn’t think, or plan, or considers his training: he fights. 

It’s as exhilarating as it is scary, but he has no time to waste considering any of it — he isn’t thought or analysis or his years and years of training: he’s instinct acting through him within the Force.

He’s aware of Scott trying to keep up with him, a dozen other troopers running along in front of him, trying to clear his path as he runs towards the building — hundreds of super battle droids surrounding it in a close formation, blaster bolts flying towards him even before he is on their line of fire.

Stiles finally stops moving, looking at Scott and nodding once, and the ARC makes a series of complicated hand gestures. About a hundred feet from them, an ordnance specialist throws a bomb against the droids guarding the Justice Building right in front of Stiles and the other troopers, and Stiles, instead of moving _away_ from it, as most non-droid fighters are doing, moves _with_ it, inside the building, using the Force to keep most of the shrapnel and fire away from him as he leaps past it and through a window on the second floor, glass and metal coming with him.

He feels blood running down his cheek, but it doesn’t matter now, because his plan mostly worked — he now has no idea what the situation is outside, but he’s in the building, and he has a chance to capture the man behind the Balawai organization in Haruun Kal.

The droids apparently didn’t think anyone would make it past them into the building, and all Stiles finds as he runs through the corridors of the buildings are Balawai trying to defend what Stiles thinks must be the old courtroom. He throws the most aggressive ones against walls, disarms the ones who seem unsure, and just plain lets the ones who don’t fight him run away — he could try to mind control them, but he’s absolutely no good at it, and he doesn’t very much like that particular skill of the Jedi.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he makes it to the courtroom and throws the doors open with a flick of his hand, his lightsaber ready for battle.

In the room, staring at the door with a blaster gun in his hand, is a Twi’lek male who must be around Master Deaton’s age. His lekku are the exact same shade as Ali-Sen’s, and his cold, piercing blue eyes send a shiver down Stiles’s spine, but he doesn’t even flinch — he takes a step into the room, and the man keeps his weapon trained on Stiles. Around the room, the padawan sees six males and a woman standing, just as ready for a fight as he is, but not one of them moves. He keeps walking, taking a deep breath, and getting ready for battle when he sees the man chuckle bitterly and shake his head.

“And so they send the Jedi in to deal with barely armed and barely trained troops,” the man says, his voice quiet and mocking.

“No, they sent the Jedi in to deal with the mess the Separatist and their alliance with the Dark Side brought onto you.”

The man actually scoffs, not lowering his weapon, and Stiles finally stops, about ten feet from him.

“Religious ignorance and idiocy sprouted by those too naïve to see a power struggle for what it is. Tell me, Jedi, is your order any better if they are killing my people? Are your troops any better than ours, if the only thing we’re trying to do is have the right to live on this planet as much as the Korunnai have?”

“We aren’t killing your people. _You_ are killing your people. You all live on this planet, and there’s no reason for you to fight for control.”

“As long as we let _them_ control it, isn’t it? As long as we live as outsiders, as outcasts. Called _Balawai, downfolk_ out of spite and hatred.”

The man’s voice is quiet still, but now it’s also angry, and Stiles can understand it, he really can.

The civil war on this planet is for more than just control over politics — it’s a war cry from the people who sought refuge on it, and didn’t find the place to be as welcoming as they had been told. The struggle on Haruun Kal went further than political affiliation, than Republic or Confederacy: it is an internal issue that they should have solved themselves — and if it weren’t for the Clone Wars, maybe they would have.

Sadly, that is not an option anymore, though.

“You think the Confederacy has your best interests at heart, but they don’t.” The man moves then, circling Stiles, weapon raised and ready to shoot, and Stiles follows it, circling along until he’s at the back of the room, and the man has his back against the door Stiles came in through, “They will let you win this war for them, and then they’ll strip you of any power you have, and take over. Look around you, look at who they have fighting for you — not a single soldier, not a single sentient being, but _droids_ , falling by the thousands outside, because they can be easily replaced. Do you think they’ll treat you any different? That you’re any better off being on their side? End this madness, relinquish control over this planet, make peace within your people, for they _are your people_ , and let the Separatists fight their own wars without Korunnai blood on your streets.”

“But we aren’t Korunnai, are we?” It’s the woman who speaks now, hair red as blood, and eyes flashing electric blue. Even though her features aren’t truly wolfish, Stiles would recognize a part-Kaleesh anywhere in the universe, and he falters, a pang in his heart that he tries his best to ignore, “We are outsiders, Balawai, unwanted. If we relinquish control, we lose everything.”

“You do not,” Stiles tries to argue, and he starts lowering his weapon — maybe negotiating will be the solution here instead of a prolonged fight, “We can negotiate peace in here, we can—” but he never gets a chance to finish, because the woman shoots at him before he can finish speaking.

It’s all he can do to drop down and raise his lightsaber again, and after that all hell breaks loose. Most of the troopers who had come with him into Pelek Baw over the walls come running in, and Scott is locked into battle with the Twi’lek in charge, as Stiles tries to defend himself against the woman’s shots without actually killing her.

The rest of the troopers are effectively taking weapons away from the few people who seemed to have been trying to protect their leader, and Stiles feels a sudden panic that they’ll kill the people in the room with them.

“Do not kill them!” he shouts, leaping over a table and crouching down to stay clear of another shot.

His shout makes the leader falter in his fight with Scott, and Stiles takes this chance to jump right over the woman and fall behind the man, his lightsaber at his neck in the blink of an eye.

“Freeze!” he shouts, and the woman’s eyes are wide and fearful for the first time.

“Christopher!” she shouts and tries to run forward, but a trooper is on her way, blaster gun aiming at her head.

“Victoria, do not move,” Christopher tells her, and everyone in the room stops.

Stiles takes a moment to think of what to do next — truth be told, he hasn’t really planned any further than capturing their leader. He has his prey. He just has no idea what to do with the man now that he has him.

“What are you going to do, Jedi? Cut off my head and use it to intimidate the rest of us?”

The man’s voice is cold as ice, but Stiles frowns under his hood, completely baffled.

They are Jedi — they aren’t assassins or mercenaries. They are the _good guys_ — so why does talking to this man feel like he has the wrong side of a dialog the whole time?

“We do not behead subjugated enemies,” Stiles tells him, his voice almost faltering, as he tries to think fast.

He doesn’t have to ponder for long, though, as an inhuman scream comes from the outside, followed by an explosion that shakes the room they are in. His eyes wide, he settles for cutting the blaster gun in Christopher’s hands in two with his lightsaber as he runs outside to see what is happening, not even noticing that everyone else in the room has followed him.

Out on the street, in the square in front of the building they are in, are two forms dueling as Stiles has never seen anyone duel before. He had heard of the _Vaapad_ form, but seeing it being used in front of him makes Stiles fear it more than he thought he could ever fear his Master — it’s more than two skilled duelists, it’s almost like a challenge to death itself with every strike.

Stiles has never seen his Master so focused before, and yet, he has never felt him so absolutely desolated — Master Deaton has given up on saving Jen-Fer. He is fighting to end this, to end whatever madness she has done, and Stiles’s heart breaks for his Master.

For a moment, it seems like Deaton is winning, the two Jedi getting closer and closer to each other, but then Jen-Fer smiles ferociously, looking around them quickly, and Stiles tries to move, but it’s already too late — another explosion shakes the building they are in, sends them off their feet when the whole front façade falls down onto them, Deaton losing his focus onto the fight to keep it from crushing everyone under it. Stiles and the troopers run just as Jen-Fer attacks Master Deaton again, making him lose his focus, and she leaps away, hand stretched out, making the façade crumble completely, falling down with a crashing sound.

Jen-Fer takes off running, then, Master Deaton giving chase, and Stiles goes after them, but not before he registers Christopher screaming his wife’s name in desperation.

They weren’t supposed to bring death and destruction to this place, they were supposed to bring peace.

In front of him, Jen-Fer is causing chaos and mayhem, shaking buildings and throwing people off her way with nary an effort — the Dark Side feeds on negative emotions, and the whole city seems to be drowning in them.

Deaton finally manages to overcome her, and leaps over the other Jedi, attacking as soon as he’s there, aiming for her right hand, lightsaber shining dangerously. They continue fighting in a speed Stiles can barely follow, as he watches helplessly, not daring to interfere — the duel is clearly taking its toll on both of them: Deaton has lost his cloak somewhere, his robes stained with dirt and blood and singed around the edges. Jen-Fer’s rebreather is in pieces around her neck, and she too has lost her cloak, her dark hair matted in places with sweat and blood.

She leaps on top of the wall and Deaton leaps up at the same time. He manages to catch her almost by surprise with a thrust to her legs, and when she jumps clumsily out of the way, his Master takes the chance to advance, trying to disarm her, not aiming to kill. He approaches faster than Stiles has ever seen him move, and cuts her lightsaber handle in half, the strength of the blow makes her drop to her knees, and Deaton goes in for the kill, but he hesitates. Stiles runs to them, jumping on the wall too, he’s not sure why — maybe to help subdue her, maybe to defend Deaton if his former padawan has another trick up her sleeve. If he weren’t so close, he wouldn’t have seen Jen-Fer’s ferocious smile, nor heard her crazed voice whispering.

“You will not win,” she says, staring at Deaton’s eyes, and then, faster than Deaton can follow, she gets up, and jumps off the wall into the toxic fog off the cliff on the East wall.

Stiles isn’t sure what makes him do it, if it’s Jen-Fer’s crazed stare, painful to look at, or Deaton’s broken scream — all he knows is that he promised the Council he would bring her back into the Light, and that is exactly what he intends to do.

Turning his rebreather on with a quick touch, he jumps off the wall too, after his Master’s former student.

_ Saturn, Sleeping at Last _

He doesn’t free fall, but it’s not a smooth landing either — the Force might not have limits, but he has limits to what he can achieve within the Force. He hits the ground with enough force to knock the air right out of him, and it’s with a huge sense of relief that he checks his rebreather for damage and finds none.

Getting up, he takes off his cloak, now in tatters for having broken down his falls some, and tries to see through the thick fog, desperate to find Jen-Fer and get back into the city.

He tries to orient himself before he starts walking, trying to sense her in the Force, but all he can sense is darkness, — it hurts him as much as anything could, to see something so pure and good like their mission turned into darkness and hatred. He can’t fathom what would have taken Jen-Fer to take this path willingly.

Stiles finds her not far from where he himself fell, and her breathing is the first thing he notices — she’s suffocating, and there’s nothing he can do. Taking his own rebreather out and giving it to her would mean condemning both of them to their deaths. He picks her up from the ground, raising her in his arms, her dark hair falling over her shoulder, and he starts trekking the path up and towards the closest gate.

Jen-Fer is not a big woman, but carrying her takes every scrape of strength Stiles possesses, and he focuses on getting her to the city again, not noticing how long it takes. He enters a state of almost meditation — only the next step matters, and the next and the next. Finally, he can see again — not distorted forms and smoke, but stones and walls and buildings. He walks towards the square he had been to before, people looking out at him through windows and doors and whispers following him around — Deaton is the first person he notices, kneeling on one knee over a woman with her head on the lap of a man — Christopher and Victoria. Her dark red hair now wet, and her face obscured by blood.

When Deaton raises his eyes as he approaches, Stiles feels the last of his strength leave him, and he falls to his knees, Jen-Fer still in his arms. Only now he finds the courage to put his hand to Jen-Fer’s neck, and there, very faint, he feels her pulse.

His eyes meet his Master’s and he smiles — Jen-Fer is alive, and there are droid parts all over the city, but not a single battle droid in sight.

He didn’t fail.

**X**

Deaton is not a man unused to failure: he knows pride can be the downfall of the wisest of Masters, but he has never in all his life felt more like a failure than when he sees Jen-Fer jumping off the wall  — except when Stiles takes one look at him and jumps after her.

For a second, all he can do is stare, and wild possibilities run through his mind: he could jump after them, find them, use the Force to break their fall, but none of them is what he _must do_. He has a mission in this place, a mission he has no intention of failing, no matter how toxic he is as a Master.

He makes his way back into the center of the city, and he realizes he doesn’t have much left to do — Stiles has successfully taken over the place, not harming civilians on his way in. He can see troopers on the ground, and some humans and other species, but mostly, the ground of Pelek Baw is covered in battle droid parts.

ARC Scott notices his approach and jogs towards him — his helmet off, his brown eyes shining in concern.

“Where’s General Stiles?” is the first thing the clone asks, and Deaton doesn’t know what to answer. He straightens his posture, and elects to ignore the clone’s question.

“What’s the situation?” he asks, striding towards the now half-collapsed justice building.

The clone looks as if he’ll ask again, but he starts walking with him in a brisk pace.

“Separatists are subdued. Their leader is… well, I’d say he’s in no condition to lead, sir. Most of them are too stunned to keep fighting now that the droids are gone.”

Deaton nods once, and walks towards the man who is getting brick after brick off a pile where the entrance to the building is.

He knows, before even coming close enough, that there’s someone under all that rubble, and that someone was as dear to the leader of the Balawai as Stiles and Jen-Fer are to him.

Deaton stops beside the Twi’lek, who doesn’t look up and doesn’t stop in his task of getting rubble off a body that Deaton can now distinguish beneath the bricks and concrete. Tears are falling down the man’s face, and the Jedi kneels beside him, not using the Force, but picking the rubble off with his bare hands. The man looks at him, his blue eyes shining with desperate tears, and Deaton doesn’t say a word, doesn’t cry either, doesn’t move. Soon, the man nods at him and gets back to work, Deaton helping by his side as around them, clones are taking care of each other, and a few others, fine after the battle, are taking care of the wounded population, caught in the crossfire.

It takes them longer than it should to dig the body of the woman from under the fallen façade, but Deaton and his companion are careful all along.

The man kneels, picking the body up, rises and walks towards the square, tripping and falling on his knees, where he stays, in the middle of this cursed city. He hugs the woman to himself, then, kissing her forehead, not caring about the blood, pulling her impossibly close with his eyes shut tight. Deaton kneels beside him, waiting, just waiting — his mission isn’t over, but they have time for mourning.

It’s so rare these days that they have the time to mourn their loved ones.

Time passes quietly until it doesn’t — a quiet whisper stars going around the streets, and Deaton can feel the shift in the Force even before he sees him: Stiles, bloodied and bruised, his cloak gone, his young face marred with blood and dirt, but _alive_ , carrying Jen-Fer’s unmoving form in his arms.

 

Artwork by [Cora](https://www.behance.net/marianafelix)

The child looks at him once, and then he smiles, and Deaton can feel his heart stop for a beat before it starts up again, stronger and hopeful in a way he hadn’t thought possible anymore. His padawan falls to his knees, and Deaton leaves the mourning husband to help his student.

“She’s alive,” Stiles whispers even before Deaton is fully by his side, and the Master Jedi dares not hope she’ll recover — he won’t crush this child’s dreams and hopes, though. Stiles does not deserve that.

Deaton calls for a med assistant clone to take Jen-Fer’s body away and into their ship — just like Stiles promised, they are taking her home and into the Light again. The kid finally rises to his feet, and Deaton feels disconcerted with the fact that he has to look up to stare into his eyes — taller than him, robes torn and filthy with dirt and blood, a wound on his forehead that would possibly scar, and, at this very moment, the braid falling on his shoulder is the one thing that seems out of place in this whole sight. Looking at him now, Deaton knows he’s made the right decision in letting Stiles be tried like this. He is proud of his student, even if he knows Stiles could benefit from a few more years of training, but he is also aware enough of his own flaws as a Master to keep him by his side for much longer.

Before going back to Coruscant, however, and seeing his last padawan become a Knight of the Jedi Order, he has a final job to do.

“There’s death all around us,” he says, voice clear and commanding in the quiet street, people watching them from far away, too scared of the Jedi to come any closer, “Death that wasn’t brought about by nature or justice, but by the dark forces working against us all. _This_ ,” he says, pointing towards where Christopher still is, clutching his dead wife’s body, “is the work of the Dark Side. This is the work of those who seek to destroy us all, not just the Republic, but our peace, and our homes. This is where I was born, and seeing Pelek Baw fall today is a wound I don’t think any of us will ever recover from, but I ask you, do not let all this pain be for nothing. End this meaningless Civil War,” his eyes search around the square, tired faces and somber eyes watch his every move, “Do not let the Dark Side win. It twisted and turned a Jedi Master, someone who swore to serve and protect the peace and the Light, into nothing more than a monster and a killing machine, no better than a battle droid — do not let it twist your hearts and souls too.”

He turns to Christopher then, knowing he, as their leader, has the power to end this war in a way that he, as a foreigner, does not, “End this war, for the sake of all your people.”

The man is still looking down when Deaton stops talking, but he raises his eyes when silence comes again, chin up, head held high. In that moment, Deaton can see why he’s the leader of this people, why they trust him — and, most of all, why they will follow him if he decides to end this.

“I, Christopher Argent, leader of the Balawai, pledge my allegiance to the Republic and the Jedi Order, and ask for a peace treaty with the Korunnai.”

Christopher’s voice isn’t firm or loud, but the pain in it, the tears breaking it, only serve to make his plea more real.

Deaton nods at him then, knowing that there is much more to be done before the war can truly be declared over, but right then he can only incline his head in a silent thank you at the man, before putting his hand on Stiles’s shoulder and guiding him out of the square turned battlefield.

Their job here is done.

**X**

Jen-Fer Blake has fallen into a coma, with no perspective to ever wake up.

Stiles has a very hard time dealing with that, but Master Deaton keeps telling him he must let it go, that it is her path, and that he has kept his promise to bring her back into the Light — where would she find a most restful place to spend her days in peace than in the Jedi Temple in Coruscant?

Still, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth knowing he will never understand why she turned, what it was that seduced her into the Dark so completely to the point of killing people for pleasure, of enjoying other people’s pain.

The whole journey back to Coruscant, Stiles is antsy and nervous. He has made an easy friendship with ARC Scott, who seems to be endlessly impressed with the fact that Stiles is as young as he is.

“When I saw you back into the square, with your hood off, I thought someone had taken your place or something.”

Stiles smiles at him, finding irony in the fact that the man thinks _he_ is the young one, when Scott himself isn’t more than a couple of years old.

Apart from trying to convince him to keep his peace of mind, Deaton has kept his distance from him, and that is another thing Stiles doesn’t really know how to fix — the man clearly has issues with the fact that now two of his padawans have strayed into the Dark Side, but that only ever reinforces Stiles’s resolve to be a fair and just Knight. Deaton deserves that, at the very least.

Coruscant is still as glorious as ever, a whole planet covered in a single city, with billions of lights all over, but coming home this one time feels heavier and darker than it ever did before — Deaton isn’t wrong, the planet really is filled with a Dark presence, and now that Stiles has been away, he feels it more clearly than before.

He gets to his quarters to find Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka waiting for him, eager smiles on their faces.

“So, how was it? I was told you led the Clone Army all by yourself!” Alis-Sen starts, and Stiles feels a twinge of pain, her lekku reminding him of Christopher’s for a second, before he snorts a bit, getting into his room with them following him inside.

“I did. Of course, I wouldn’t have been half as successful without ARC Scott, but we did take Haruun Kal back.”

Eri-Ka has a brilliant smile on her face — like Deaton, she’s a Guardian, and understands matters of war better than Allison who, as a Security Sentinel, tends to oversee things from afar rather than in the battlefield.

“How did it feel? Winning?” she asks, her smile telling him she expects a brilliant smile as an answer, but Stiles takes a moment to swallow hard and think — think of Victoria Argent fallen to the ground, of Christopher’s desolated pledge, of scared faces, and of people clearly thinking the Jedi are the wrong people to be in control of their peace. He thinks of Deaton’s expression when Jen-Fer fell, he thinks of Jen-Fer herself, so far gone into the Dark she couldn’t even see the Light anymore.

“It felt like losing,” he answers her, and Alis-Sen gives him an understanding smile, as Eri-Ka is visibly subdued.

He has a feeling that in wars, nobody ever really wins.

**X**

The very next day, he is summoned to the High Council chambers, and he’s sweating nervously as Deaton walks the corridors proudly by his side. They pass a few Jedi and padawans on the way, who all smile brightly at Stiles — a Knighting is always cause for celebration — and Stiles tries his best to answer, but he is too nervous to do it.

They enter the dark chambers, and walk to the middle of it. Suddenly, eleven lightsabers light up the room, Master Kilgharrah right in front of him, Deaton a comforting presence at his back. Stiles kneels, head down in respect, as Master Kilgharrah’s powerful voice seems to echo around the room.

“By the right of the council — by the will of the Force, I dub thee Jedi — Knight of the Republic.”

The Grand Master’s lightsaber swiftly cuts off his braid, and Stiles catches the strand in his hand, raising his eyes to the dragon-like being, who has the closest thing to a glad look as Stiles has ever seen him.

“Rise, Jedi Knight Stiles, and may the Force be with you.”

“May the Force be with you,” he answers humbly, as the other Masters offer him their compliments solemnly.

When Stiles strides off the room, Deaton sets a hand on his shoulder, a rare smile on his lips.

“Congratulations, Jedi Knight Stiles.”

“Thank you, Master,” he answers, and Deaton nods at him once, and turns his back, leaving him by himself in the Temple — it was a felicitation, but Stiles has the strange suspicion that it was also a form of goodbye.


	7. The Works

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the visual from this chapter comes from The Dark Lord Trilogy, which I _highly_ recommend. They're a wonderful read if you like Star Wars.
> 
> And we finally find out where Derek is after all.

Count Peter doesn’t consider himself _evil_ — what he does believe he is it’s a man in possession of a great amount of _clarity_.

He _sees_ things for what they are, and he is not held back by frivolous sentimentality to act on what he perceives as wrong. The Jedi Order, for instance, is _wrong_. So is the Senate, and the whole concept of the Republic, because people — any kind of people, any kind of species, aren’t good at making decisions that will benefit the greater amount of beings. The Senate is full of politicians trying to make a profit out of any and everything — they would never think of the good of the many if they could profit from it, and once they had a feel for the power, nothing would stop them from going back for more and more. Meanwhile, less rich systems faded away and defined, the gap between the two ever growing, and the Jedi kept on fighting for the _Republic_ , and not realizing how they were slowly turning into an Army for the rich and powerful.

Not that there’s anything wrong with power, or seeking it — but that is not the purpose of the Order, and that isn’t supposed to be the purpose of the Senate or the Republic either.

So he left — he left while he still had some respect for his old colleagues, and while he still thought he could make a difference working through his political maneuvers, taking advantage of his position as a Count to, maybe, bring about the reform of their government system. He started working with the Trade Federation and the Banking Clan, to bring about their end from inside, and together, they had conceived the Confederacy of Independent Systems, where maybe, at the beginning, there would be power struggles, and the richer ones would prevail, but they would do so out of their own abilities and assets, and not because the Republic forced them, and the Jedi made sure they did it.

That was when Lord Sidious found him.

It was like the clarity he had always possessed had been turned up to a thousand in its potency, showing him the flaws of every system, and the problems in every venue, and he finally knew what he had to do — what was his mission, what he needed to accomplish to bring about _change_ , tangible, real, meaningful _change_ to the Galaxy.

He had a mission, and a purpose, and he had finally _believed_ in something enough to not care who he had to join forces with to see it accomplished.

Which brings him to his current predicament of having to deal with a cyborg instead of _humans_.

Hiding his distaste as much as he can, he turns to watch as General Grievous receives his orders beside him — not that the… _thing_ would care. General Grievous is _past_ the concept of caring about what anyone thinks of him. He is past emotions and feelings that aren’t directly connected to _war_.

It is, after all, what he had been created to do.

He has no concept of joy, or fear, or distaste. No understanding of elegance, or grace, or posture. He cares for winning battles, and for killing enemies, and taking with him the trophies that Peter himself can’t help but find distasteful — however, even he isn’t so cold as to begrudge the cyborg that _one_ quirk, when everything else on him is already past humanity — or, well, in his case, past being the Kaleesh General and warrior he had once been.

Bowing low when Lord Sidious is done talking to him, Count Peter can’t help but observe the way the cyborg moves — it’s almost fascinating, really. There’s a certain… balance to it that he wouldn’t dare call _grace_ , but it’s almost there. He moves with the certainty of a feral predator on a wild system, always hunting, always on the prowl, his eyes shining behind his durasteel mask, covering all of his face, but for that red, red stare. His torso is covered in durasteel and ceramic armorplast-plated duranium, stained dark black and red, arms and legs covered in the same combination of materials, making him indestructible, invincible, and also more machine than whatever he had been before.

Inside his armor, running through his whole body, electrodrivers and crystal circuitry keep him alive with no need for food, or sleep, or rest — he is a true killing machine, highly functional and creative enough that he can win them this war, and also controlled enough that he is, deep down, no better than the millions of droids he sends to their destruction every single day.

On his back, he wears a cape, always falling down his left side, made of armorweave — the dark material flashes at times, its ends fringed and singed, and Peter thinks that maybe a little bit of emotion has filtered through the cyborg’s mind at that, with the way he displays the clear signs of battle on his cape proudly.

Well, that, and his very own name, chosen as soon as he woke up in Geonosis, years and years ago, fished out of an accident Peter went through much trouble to cause, and even more to convince the Chief in Kalee to allow General Hale to come with him. His red eyes had shone deadly as ever in the clear white room he woke up in, armor in place, more machine than wolf or man, and Count Peter himself had explained to him his new purpose, his new life: to serve Lord Sidious and to fight for control over the Galaxy, spreading war and destruction all around him — he had, after all, been so good at it even before his _update_ , there was no stopping him then, with a body just as strong as his will, and an army that would never balk at an order, never disobey, and never need be mourned, even when they were destroyed by the thousands in every battle.

His one request had been that they never attacked Kalee — easy as anything, for the system had no value for them _or_ the Republic. He had then named himself General Grievous, and never looked back on his past, never wondered why he didn’t feel anymore, why he didn’t need all the things he had needed before to keep on living.

It had been complicated, expensive work, but worth it now, though, even with all the trouble to arrange the accident, with all the expense they had to update the Kaleesh General into a cyborg — even more worth it now that he doesn’t have to deal with the man’s sense of honor and duty.

What is it with people from that planet and their sense of loyalty?

His own orders received, he too, bowed to his Master, and followed the cyborg out of the control room, heading back to the meeting room, where he would discuss his new orders with the Trade Federation representatives — despicable as they are, they have their uses.

“Would you require my help with the negotiations, Count Peter?”

Peter stops, and turns to face the cyborg, who looks almost _bored_ as he waits for his answer.

“Not right away, General Grievous. You may return to your post,” he orders and the creature bows — not as low as he had before, but Peter forgives him this, he has no sense of manners, after all — and leaves, cape trailing after him, a black and red shape covered in shadows even in the well-lit corridors.

There’s a certain tragedy around him that Peter can almost appreciate — not enough to make him question his own decision of tinkering with the man’s sense of sentiment and feelings in Geonosis, but there at any rate.

Knowing Grievous as well as he does now, Peter doubts that he would choose to feel again even if told that his circuitry and most of the armor could be taken off with no more damage to him, his body healed due to his Kaleesh nature.

He won’t, of course, actually let the cyborg know any of that — rage, after all, is the one feeling Grievous still has in him, and Peter doesn’t fancy being on the receiving end of it, should it ever happen, even if, in the end, he’s secure in thinking he would win any combat between them.

Walking briskly towards the meeting room, he stops wondering about the machine who leads his Army — he has years of war to plan.

**X**

Returning to Coruscant is always bittersweet to Stiles — in a way, it feels like home in a manner nowhere else in the Galaxy does. The Temple, the tall buildings, the endless lights, it’s the only home he actually remembers having, Kalee almost gone but for a distant memory in his heart. On the other hand, the layer of Darkness around every single building on the planet makes his heart heavy, and it’s almost like an actual physical presence by his side the whole time he’s there.

Thankfully, he isn’t in Coruscant for very long, and neither is he there all that frequently.

For the past seven years, right after he had been knighted, he has been sent away from Coruscant constantly, never spending more than a week or two at the Temple. First, he was always accompanied by Alis-Sen or Eri-Ka, or sometimes both, and he knew it was because his knighting hadn’t been exactly an unanimous decision by the Council — it had come more from Master Deaton’s not trusting his own skill as a Master than Stiles being truly ready to be a Knight, and because of that, he is thankful for the other two Jedi’s guidance and training even if, technically, he had been at the same level as Eri-Ka, at least.

Those days are gone, however, and for the past four years, he has been going into battle on his own, with his own troops to guide and command — his one constant companion being ARC Scott, with whom he has developed a relationship of trust and companionship in battle and outside of it.

A year before, he had gained the status of Master for services rendered to the Republic, and that was when the Council decided it was time for him to train a padawan of his own. He hadn’t been sure if he should accept it, and sought help and council with his own old Master, no matter how distant they had become since he the battle on Haruun Kal. The man had almost smiled, and told him he would make a good Master without a doubt.

Scott, Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka had been of the same opinion, and so, Stiles had taken on the task of teaching young Liam.

He was an eager student, if a bit moody, and also in constant need of reassurance. Stiles has a hard time dealing with that, mainly because he has already caught himself going with ‘when I was your age’ several times, and there’s no real comparison between them. Stiles knows how lucky he is to have started training as a padawan so young, and also how lucky he is someone like Master Deaton had trained him — he shouldn’t make his student feel inadequate because he started training at the age most padawans do, sixteen. He and, well, Merlin, started at twelve, but Merlin was, and still is, as they all know it, a special case.

His padawan walks beside him as they land onto Coruscant and head to the transport to take them to the Temple, and Scott comes to stand by his other side.

“General Stiles, what are our orders?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he knows it’s protocol, and they have to follow it — Scott is, after all, a _clone_ , and for some people that does not give him the same status as a person.

“I have to go to the Temple and give my report, we’ll probably be leaving again in a day or two, ARC Scott. You can take this time to repair our ship and see to any other need you and your troops may have,” he tells the man with a small wink, making the clone rolls his eyes at him, before saluting him and leaving.

By his side, Liam snorts a bit, and Stiles turns to frown at him, doing his best to attempt a serious tone.

“Anything you’d like to share, Liam?”

His padawan shakes his head, smile on his face.

“It’s just weird seeing you two be formal like that after the siege.”

Stiles doesn’t disagree with his padawan, because it’s the truth — after almost one whole year off planet, living every single day with the troopers in the battlefields, treating them as if they aren’t his friends and trusted companions feels strange, but Stiles isn’t really one to try and break rules.

Well, that is a lie, but he isn’t one to break rules where he can be caught.

That line of thought immediately brings a pang of near despair to his heart — he’s a terrible example and should never have been made a Master.

“Just… remember we are in Coruscant now, and things here aren’t the same as in the battlefield. Be on your best behavior,” he tells his padawan, while giving him a hard stare.

Immediately, the kid straightens his back and nods, smile gone from his face.

“Yes, Master.”

Stiles nods back at him, keeping a straight face, but truth is he’ll never get used to that — or maybe he will. He has no idea how the other Masters deal with their padawans, especially their _first_ padawans, really. His own frame of reference is Deaton himself, but he knows, from personal experience, that he would never be able to keep his distance from Liam as Deaton kept from him, it’s just not who he is.

They get to the quarters they share, and Liam leaves to see his friends in the Dragon Clan, while Stiles takes the time to change into clean robes and cloak, and leaves for his debriefing with the Council — he would bring his padawan with him, but Liam deserves to see his friends more than he needs to be with him as he gives bad news to a bunch of old Masters.

He really is unfit to teach a padawan.

Shaking his head, he walks to the Council meeting room, waiting by the door as they finish another meeting. Alis-Sen comes out soon enough, and they take a moment to embrace — it’s been, after all, almost a year since they’ve seen each other outside of terrible quality Holonet transmissions. As he waits, Eri-Ka comes to make him company, and he’s grateful for it — after the battle was done, she was the one responsible for most of the clean-up, and that is always the part that is troublesome to report on, and the most difficult to accomplish.

When they enter the room, he takes a moment to breathe in deeply, nodding to the Masters gathered there politely. Every time he sees them, they look older and more tired than before, seeming to age in a speed that just isn’t natural — the war is taking their toll on the warriors away from Coruscant, but it’s also damaging the people in it.

“Master Eri-Ka, Master Stiles,” Kilgharrah stars, and the both of them nod at the man, standing with their backs straight and trying to center themselves in the Force, “What is the final report on the Siege of Saleucami?”

“Harder than most, Master,” Stiles starts, face grim and voice subdued, “The Grand Army of the Republic is used to fighting against the droids that General Grievous seems to favor, and while there were plenty of those, this time we faced a threat of clones of the Confederacy, trained by assassins. The casualties were much higher than all the other battles usually bring about, because it wasn’t just _our_ sentient beings getting killed this time. It affected the morale of the Army,” he finishes in an almost cold tone, but Master Kilgharrah simply nods, while Deaton frowns at him.

“Master Stiles, you cannot let the deaths of our enemies affect your judgment in battle,” the man starts, but Eri-Ka interrupts him, frowning as she does, always more prone to pick an argument than to end it — part of the reason she didn’t have a padawan of her own, even if she’s an accomplished Guardian Master and also older than Stiles himself.

“And it didn’t. The moral toll didn’t affect our judgment towards battle, Master Deaton, but it did cause doubts among the population — people were dying on both sides by the hundreds. The final count was in the tens of thousands. General Grievous certainly knew he was dealing with sentient clones this time, just as capable of feeling and thinking as any of us, but it did not stop him from treating them as fodder. It remains a scary notion that one could treat life with such disregard.”

“Nonetheless,” Kilgharrah interferes, sensing discord already spreading among them, “The mission was accomplished, and the system is free of the Confederacy influence. For that, we thank you both.”

Stiles and Eri-Ka only nod at that, recognizing a request for silence when they see one, and proceed to stick to the facts of the battle afterwards, leaving as soon as they are done.

Once in the corridor, Eri-Ka glances at Stiles, but he pretends he doesn’t notice, letting her work up the nerve to talk — they’ve been to too many battles together for him to think she’ll talk any sooner than when she is absolutely ready for it.

“You feel it, don’t you?” she finally says when they are almost to her quarters, and Stiles sighs as they get in, Eri-Ka procuring a bottle of Ithorian mist from somewhere — it’s not a thing they indulge in often, but they deserve it after the siege.

“The Dark Side is stronger here than anywhere else I’ve ever been to,” he finally says, glass already in his hand, taking a long sip, and setting it on the table, “It’s almost as if Coruscant is also _their_ home as much as it is ours. I don’t like this.”

“No one likes it, Stiles,” she tells him, tone sad despite the biting words.

“I don’t mean the presence of the Dark Side here,” he explains, “At least, not only that. Of course we don’t like, this is our home, our Temple, to have the Dark Side in here is an insult as much as it is a danger, but I don’t like… I don’t like where these battles are leading us, Eri-Ka. They don’t seem to have a point. In the past ten years, we’ve crushed more civil uprisings and ended more civil wars than I thought possible, and yet… Is this our purpose? Our path? We are Jedi, not an Army. We are the Keepers of the Peace, not warriors and soldiers, and yet I can’t remember a time, in both my training as a padawan and a Jedi, when I wasn’t behaving like an agent of war. And still the Council—” he stops talking abruptly when the door to Eri-Ka’s quarters opens and he breathes a sigh of relief when they see it’s just Alis-Sen.

“What’s happening?” she asks, suspicious already, but Eri-Ka merely shakes her head.

“Exemplary Master Stiles, the tutor of the padawans, was about to embark on another rant against the way the Council is dealing with this war.”

Alis-Sen sighs deeply.

“It’s not the Council, Stiles, it’s the Senate.”

Stiles turns to look at her, tired already of the many, many times they’ve had this conversation before.

He knows it’s the Senate, and the Senate controls the Republic, and the Republic is what the Jedi have sworn to defend and protect — but to protect the _people_ of the Republic, the systems, the _peace_.

After ten years of war, he’s tired of it, and all he wants is to see it end, and yet, every time it seems like they are getting close to finishing it once and for all, another civil war breaks out, or another system leaves the Republic for the Confederacy, and they have to fight, and fight, and then fight even more to bring them back, to eliminate the threat.

And it’s no little threat — General Grievous is an opponent to give any Jedi nightmares, even if they don’t usually have them. Not really a man, and not really a machine, he stands in the middle, seeming to get the very worst and the most dangerous parts of both worlds. On Saleucami, that level of terror took on a new color, because sending millions of droids to be destroyed is what they all do — but to use _people_ like they were disposable? It was too horrifying a notion to contemplate.

The clones in their troops were treated like proper humans, even if many people only saw them for their uniform — to use people the way Grievous had used the clones in Saleucami was beyond cruel. And yet, it didn’t end.

It never did.

One siege is barely over, and Stiles is already waiting for the moment when he will be called in by the Council to lead another van against another people who only chose to do what they should be able to do if they so desired — leave.

If only the Confederacy weren’t so clearly and completely a fruit of Dark Side manipulation, Stiles might contemplate taking Count Peter’s route and leaving Coruscant behind, but even that had been corrupted and destroyed in this endless war.

There are no more right paths, and all they can do is choose the less harmful one.

“I know,” he ends up saying with another sigh — even if Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka are his closest friends, not even them would actually agree with him and his views on the Republic itself, “I’m just tired and battle weary.”

“We should all rest,” Eri-Ka agrees, draining the last of her glass and getting up, as Stiles does the same. He hugs his two friends, and he and Alis-Sen leave together. She goes on her way to the Security Central, and Stiles takes the path to the Dragon Clan housing to pick up Liam — the kid still needs to sleep properly after the battle, and Stiles himself won’t be able to rest if he doesn’t know that Liam is safe and sound in their quarters.

Stars’ end, he is turning into a mother hen.

Walking the corridors of the Temple in Coruscant always brings him peace of mind, though, no matter how troubled he is, so he takes his time, making his way to the Dragon Clan housing slowly.

He sees her by chance, but Stiles has a feeling she had been expecting him — she seems to always know what’s coming.

“Master Morgana,” he greets, a smile on his face, and he wishes he could go and embrace her, but they aren’t that close — not as they could have been, it was just not meant to be. She looks different, somehow, her green eyes intense as she stares at him, smiling gently, fondness in her face, but it’s also a strange smile — as if she’s not quite _there_ with him.

“You are back from Saleucami,” she states, and Stiles nods, coming to a stop just a few steps away from her.

“Yes, just a few hours ago. I’m on my way to pick up Liam and make sure he goes to sleep, who knows how soon we’ll be called off world again,” he ends in a sigh, and Morgana tilts her head to the side, seeming sad all of a sudden, almost gone from him.

“Who would have thought, you have a padawan already,” she smiles again when she says it, but Stiles can see it takes some effort, and he almost wants to ask why she looks so devastated, but he doesn’t — the burden she must carry, being a Seer, _knowing_ things, people expecting her to know how to solve those things too, as if having the knowledge of what will happen could possibly change their fates.

“I do,” he answers, and then adds, in a teasing tone, “I got one before Merlin,” he winks, and Morgana looks fond again, if still troubled.

“You must be a good Master,” she tells him kindly, and Stiles shrugs — all of his doubts about what he’s doing with Liam coming to his mind, but he lets them go as best as he can. He doubts himself out there, in the battlefields — not to do so would be foolish — but never as much as he does when he’s at the Temple.

“I do my best,” he tells her, trying to smile, but he knows it’s more of a grimace.

She looks away from him then, her bright green eyes staring ahead and away, so far away from him he feels as if should he reach out a hand and try to touch her, he wouldn’t be able to grasp.

“It’s all any of us can do in the end, isn’t it?”

Stiles stares at her, then, not knowing how to answer. That it is true? That they are trying their best and failing? That he sees no hope while he is in Coruscant, and maybe he only sees some when he is away because from afar it’s easier to ignore the real problem?

So he doesn’t say anything, and Morgana turns to stare at him again.

“You were such a bright child,” she smiles, voice going soft, and she reaches out and takes one of his hands into hers, “Even with all you went through… I wish we could have done more for you.”

“I understand why you couldn’t,” he tells her, tone going mocking, but not mean, in his next sentence, “You had to look after _The Chosen One_ , after all.”

“We all have our burdens to bear,” she tells him simply — not apologetically as Mordred still gets with him the rare times their paths cross, not distant as Merlin tends to be when they are in the same room, but simply and truthfully. He nods, agreeing, and squeezes her hand once.

“I should go. Liam is probably waiting for me.”

She squeezes his hand back, and he turns around, continuing on his way, almost gone around a corner when he hears her voice again, clear and stronger than in their whole conversation.

“You will repay your debt. You will save him.”

He turns around and frowns at where she’s standing, hand against a pillar, looking frail and ethereal as she tends to look by her beauty alone, but also so much stronger than should be possible.

“Who? Merlin?” he asks, frowning in confusion, but she shakes her head, smile fond again.

“That is not your path,” she pauses, seeming to consider something before speaking again, “Do not despair, Stiles, you will save him,” she tells him again and turns her back, disappearing among the pillars.

Stiles can only stare for a long moment — many Jedi would give their lightsabers to hear of the future from Morgana, and yet, he isn’t sure he wants to try and understand what she’s saying.

He doesn’t put much stock in prophecies and foresight — for all that he _knows_ they exist, trying to get them accomplished, or worse, trying to _avoid_ them, always seem to end in tragedy and despair, and he has no interest in either.

Their lives are grim enough without him trying to fight his destiny.

**X**

As he had thought, he’s called in to the Council merely two days after getting back from Saleucami. He brings Liam along this time, the kid needs to learn how to deal with the Council as much as he needs experience in battle — hopefully, by the time Liam becomes a Jedi Knight, he will no longer have much use for all the battle tactics and experience he will have had by then. Dealing with the Council, however, is a constant.

Master Deaton is already fitted to leave when Stiles and Liam get to the Council room, Eri-Ka and Alis-Sen behind him, and Stiles raises an eyebrow in question.

“What’s the matter?”

“We’ve received information that Lord Sidious might have been in Coruscant himself.”

Stiles balks at that, and even Liam, who doesn’t really _know_ anything about this looks a bit more fearful than a second ago, even if he’s trying to hide it.

“Where?”

“The Works.”

Now Stiles understands. He nods, checks his belt for his lightsaber, and turns to Deaton awaiting orders.

“We are going into it with a score of troopers and as many Jedi as we can get from the Temple. I was hoping you two would accompany us.”

“Of course, Master,” he tells the man, and Deaton nods at him, almost gratefully.

They start heading to the exit, and Stiles can see Liam swallowing dryly before starting to move. He waits until they get to the transport ship, already full of padawans, and stays behind, leaving Deaton to command the troops as he talks to Liam.

“Find your focus,” he tells the boy, who takes a shuddering breath and nods, closing his eyes and visibly willing himself to relax, “It’s just like any other mission we’ve received before, Liam. There is nothing in it for you to fear.”

Liam opens one eye and stares at him a bit incredulously.

“There are four Jedi Masters, a score of troopers and as many padawans as they could get from the Temple in this ship, Master. I may be young, but I’m not that stupid.”

Stiles laughs at him then, making the boy even more disgruntled.

“You’re not stupid at all, young padawan,” and that gets a smile out of Liam, because Stiles never really managed to call him that in a serious fashion, “But it is just like any other battle. We are facing the Dark Side and the enemies they send us every day since you started your training with me. Every battle, every droid you tore to pieces, every trap we’ve set, every planet we’ve saved, this has been our enemy all along. The fact that he now may be out of disguise and finally ready to face us is not cause for fear, but for us to rejoice. Just think, maybe, if the Force wills it, we will face them today, without a trace of fear in our hearts, and we will end this war.”

“That’s a lot to hope for,” the kid tells him a bit shakily, but he is already more calm than he had been before, and Stiles reaches out a hand, and touches his arm in comfort, staring into his eyes.

“Hoping is all any of us can do at this point. And when the time comes, we’ll fight, and, hopefully, win. Or keep on fighting if that is what happens, until peace is again at the heart of the Galaxy,” Liam nods at him then, determination all over his young face, “Never forget that, Liam, that is what we are — Keepers of the Peace. Even if we fight, it’s to restore it, and to keep it. War was never our purpose.”

Liam nods at him, face more determined than ever, and he grips his sky blue lightsaber with his right hand, staring out the windows as if expecting enemies to start falling out of the sky to fight him.

Stiles can only smile softly at the kid’s back, and turn his attention elsewhere — Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka are on the other side of the ship, making last minute contingency plans with the clones, and Deaton is just a few steps away, having clearly listened to his conversation with his padawan.

“You are a wonderful Master,” his former instructor tells him, and Stiles nods at the compliment.

“I learned from the best,” he tells him, and Deaton uncharacteristically snorts quietly, shaking his head.

“That was all on your own, Stiles. I do believe you were your own Master for longer than you’ve been a Knight or a Master yourself.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Master Deaton.”

The man doesn’t answer to that, only stares at him for a moment, and leaves, and Stiles is left with the feeling that Deaton has stayed in Coruscant for too long.

It doesn’t seem to cause anyone any good staying in the planet-city for extended periods.

Sooner than he would have liked, they get to The Works, and Stiles can feel the whole atmosphere of the ship they are in changing — everything is darker in the Works, heavier and more somber.

The Works had once been a prosperous factory district, with employees milling about day and night, factories always working, and business flourishing all around — when the costs became too high, however, the owners left the planet, and the employees sought somewhere to relocate, or else followed the factories to where they were then.

The whole place is a sharp contrast with the Senate building, the Jedi Temple, or 500 Republica, where the richest and the most influential people lived — desolated and apparently empty, the Works is the place where the outlaws, the bounty hunters and the illegal immigrants sought refuge now. It didn’t surprise Stiles in the least that this was Sidious’ chosen place to hide if he ever set foot in Coruscant.

The place is immense, sprawling on and on in tall buildings and deep tunnels, far beyond where the eye can see. It wasn’t hard to find a trail to follow — the deeper they went, the stronger the Dark Side presence seemed to get, and they had only to follow its trail in and in and in.

Deaton, Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka are in the lead, with Captain Dyne of Republic Intelligence and ARC commander Valiant, while Stiles prefers to stay behind, with Liam and the other padawans — the kids are clearly more scared than they had been at the Temple, but that is just the effect The Works have on most Light beings, this oppressive cloud surrounding them, like a cloak of Darkness itself covering them and everything around them.

“How are we supposed to find _anything_ in here? This place is huge!” Liam tells Stiles quietly, but a couple of other padawans listen to it anyway, and seem to be nodding their agreement to the kid.

“Dyne and Valiant know what they are doing, this is what they’ve trained for their whole lives, it’s what they are good at. We are going to find the right trail, you don’t have to worry about _that_.”

Liam glances at him, tilting his head to the side a bit, and Hayd’en, a padawan the same age as Liam, training under one of the Security officials at the Temple, frowns at both of them.

“What should we worry about then?” she asks, and Stiles looks behind, to the many padawans following his lead, and sighs. Better scared than unprepared.

“About _what_ we will find, and _how_ we’re going to deal with it.”

The padawans quiet down after that, scared and troubled, some of them too young to have been to battles yet, reason why they had been left at the Temple when their masters are away. Stiles swallows dryly, but keeps moving forward, Liam by his side, as if trying to show his courage to both his Master and his equals.

After what seems like days (but Stiles is very aware it’s just hours and the effect the Dark Side is having on him), after being led by the two Troopers through tunnels and corridors, east of the buildings and into a room, they finally seem to find some information. The two clones stop to work properly, as Deaton hovers around them, and Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka come to his side, the first calm and collected, the second seeming exasperated.

“How are the padawans holding up?” Alis-Sen asks quietly, and Stiles sighs, looking behind him again, where a cluster of kids of many races seem to be ever closer to each other, as if proximity can protect them from whatever is coming their way.

“As well as can be expected. Some of them have never even been to a battle, the Dark in this whole place is getting at them,” he finishes with a sigh. Eri-Ka is frowning at where the clones and Deaton are talking, looking disgruntled.

“This won’t end well,” she says, and Alis-Sen frowns at her, nodding slightly at the padawans behind them. Eri-Ka just shrugs unapologetically, but lowers her voice to go on, “It won’t, and you both know it. Either we find Lord Sidious at the end of this trail, and then we’ll face and actual _Sith Lord_ with four Jedi, a bunch of troopers and _children_ , or we’ll find nothing, and this will all be in vain. There’s no way this ends well.”

“I’ve missed your sunny disposition,” Alis-Sen tells her with a sweet smile, and the other woman snorts, throwing her long blond hair behind her shoulder.

“Just telling it like it is.”

Before they can talk anymore, the three men in the lead start moving again, signaling at them to follow, and they do. Finally, they get to a landing dock, with an easy access to turbolifts — the clone guarantees that someone had been there, most likely two beings, both of human constitution. As Dyne describes one of the men, Stiles’s heart still pangs painfully when he hears the ARC tell Deaton that it is safe to assume that one of the beings who had been there was probably Count Peter.

It’s not that he would have thought possible that Peter was still the same man he had known as a child — he knows the Separatist agenda follows closely the Dark Side one, and he has no delusions that the former Jedi would reform and repent, not after all this time. Still, it hurts to know they’ve lost one of their own so completely — and it intrigues him what this Darth Sidious is capable of, that a smart, powerful man like Peter would choose to follow him.

Following the clones’ directions, they gather enough information to devise where the turbolifts could lead, and the possible route that the being accompanying Count Peter would have taken — there’s a part of him that is really not surprised at all when he hears the ARC telling them that the main branch of the transport would lead to an unknown building, of unknown ownership.

Stiles can almost feel Master Deaton’s frustration vibrating off of the man in waves — the Senate didn’t like the idea of having an investigation that could lead the Jedi anywhere in Coruscant, but Deaton had been adamant, and Chancellor Uther himself had overruled their protests and allowed the Jedi anything they needed to find out the truth — they needed to follow the trail when they still had it, and they needed more freedom to do so. When they finally got permission to follow through — even though the politicians had tried to stop them from using clones and remote probes, most likely afraid the Jedi would use them to gather information about something other than the Sith Lord they might be housing — it led them through a tall building, not even three centuries old, that was falling to pieces before their eyes. Not that its state of decay did anything to stop the Dark permeating the whole building and the area surrounding it.

The remote probes are sent in, and they wait in trepidation inside the cruise ship — the younger padawans had been sent back to the Temple, and only the most capable remained, to help in the search if they received the all clear.

“No indications that the probes are being targeted,” Valiant tells them, and Master Deaton turns to stare at Stiles with a look he knows well from so many battles fought together.

The moment of truth has arrived.

After discussing the probable outcomes from getting into the building, Valiant takes the lead, turning to his troops.

“Everyone we encounter in that building is to be treated as a hostile. Strike as needed and do not hesitate. Find fix finish!”

“FIND FIX FINISH!” The others troopers answer, and Stiles and Liam both have to stop themselves from answering with them, after having done so many times with ARC Scott — Deaton, however, looks positively disturbed by it, and Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes at his former Master. As if _May the Force be with you_ didn’t disturb most people who weren’t Jedi, anyway.

They split into two teams, and Stiles heads with Liam and Deaton to the summit of the building, as the other team make their way from floor ground up — they are already in when Dyne calls them with disturbing news: they’ve found a docking pad, and in it, they find Count Peter’s ship.

The ship has clear marks of having been used recently, and Stiles barely hears to the technical discussion between the troopers and Deaton, instead focusing on the most disturbing part of it: by what the Intelligence Technician can gather, the ship has been used to cross the Works, inside Coruscant proper — to the outskirts of the Senate, and all its neighboring buildings. They are in deeper trouble than Stiles had ever even considered possible.

“We are going to need more troops,” Deaton tells him when he turns to face Stiles and the two other Jedi, and they all nod grimly.

It seems like Eri-Ka was right: there is no ending well for this.


	8. The Battle of Coruscant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that Arthur is like Padmé, but he is still King in of Camelot in here, ok? And still Uther's son, who is the Supreme Chancellor.
> 
> Aw, Derek and Stiles on the same planet.
> 
> Aw, so many people having friendship time <3
> 
> Aw, I'm so, so SO sorry <3 <3 (except I'm reeeally not)

Three days into the search through the tunnels leading out of the building they had found, and Deaton is still certain they are on the right track — Stiles, however, cannot seem to bring himself to share the man’s surprisingly optimistic view on the matter, because he is tired. So are Alis-Sen, and Eri-Ka, and Liam. None of them dare complain, though, because, should they succeed, it would be a blow to the Separatists and the Dark Side like no other, and should they fail, well, at least they are _doing_ something to deal with the real issue of the war, which is far preferable to meandering off-world, containing rebellions and civil wars, and never knowing if they are actually fighting on the right side of any of them.

The Dark Side, Stiles is quite aware, plays a major role into his pessimism and disheartened view of the whole mission. It’s affecting him, his padawan, and his closest friends, and he doesn’t like this at all, this having to battle his own demons with every step of the way, having to convince himself it’s worth to keep going when everything in those tunnels seems to whisper to him that he’s fighting on the wrong side of this battle.

That is what disturbs him the most.

On the Middle Rim Civil Wars, on the Outer Rim rebellions, on the Inner Rim aggressive negotiations, he doubts their function, and their reasons, and the Republic’s path, and the Senate’s motivation, but he never doubts the Light itself — now? Now he catches himself thinking that he can understand Count Peter’s reasoning, and agrees with him. He finds himself wondering that, maybe, giving in to the more basic feelings which sustain the Dark Side might give them an advantage if they should actually have to fight a Sith Lord.

He remembers Jen-Fer, the weight of her unconscious body, the ferocity with which she fought, he remembers wondering what could have driven her into such a pit, and then he almost _understands_ it and it’s scaring him to death.

He has this uneasy feeling that nothing will ever be the same again, this foreboding around him like he’s reaching the end of something, and he doesn’t know what it is.

Rationally, he knows they are all fighting it — this is the Dark Side way, this is what they’ve been fighting against this whole time, but it’s still truly terrifying how naturally these thoughts come to him.

He can’t even feel hopeful when they find a secret control panel which, by Deaton’s assumption, will finally take them to where the Sith’s final destination would be.

“Another corridor, what a shock,” Eri-Ka comments when they take another turn, and find one more twist.

Stiles snorts quietly, and Deaton frowns at them both.

“Every corridor we go through is one less between us and wherever this path leads,” he tells them in a severe voice, and neither of them answers — mostly because they see no point to it.

Stiles starts noticing, however, the footprints all over the long corridor, and that seems to pull him off his own dark place for long enough to actually _hope_. The prints are all clear enough that they can see the being is clearly a human, they could even measure the size of his shoes if they so wished.

He’s so distracted by this physical, irrefutable evidence of the presence of the Sith Lord in Coruscant, he almost misses Alis-Sen’s exchange with Dyne.

“If the footprints continue for much longer, we may need new permission from the Chancellor,” the clone tells her, and the woman frowns.

“Why would we need that?”

“Because if this leads us far enough, we’ll be going into the subbasements of 500 Republica.”

Stiles freezes, and he can hear Eri-Ka gasping behind him.

500 Republica, the most protected building in the whole city of Coruscant, apart from the Senate itself, home to the richest and most powerful beings in the entire Galaxy — including Uther Pendragon, the Chancellor himself.

“We will need to investigate the whole place and all of its surroundings, General,” Dyne tells Deaton, still staring at the walls and the footprints, “We’ll need much more probes than we have now.”

“How many?” Alis-Sen asks.

“ _A lot_ more. We cannot presume to leave a single part of this building, and all of its connected tunnels, unsearched.”

“But that could take _weeks_ ,” Eri-Ka states, looking more frustrated by the second.

The ARC just turns to her and nods.

“I know, that’s why I’m saying we should start the search as soon as —” the clone stops talking abruptly as the entire building shakes.

“Is that a quake?” Liam asks Stiles, his voice scared and unsure, and Stiles takes a step closer to his padawan, trying to calm the kid down with his presence.

“It could be,” he’s barely finished speaking when another shock shakes them again.

“It’s like there’s something ramming the building,” Alis-Sen says, her voice alarmed.

They all hear distant klaxons, alarms going off, and sirens blaring.

“The comlinks aren’t working,” Valiant says then, and Deaton turns to look at Stiles and the two other Jedi, before looking back at the clone.

“Valiant, you and Dyne continue on with the search, I’ll need half your squad, keep me updated.”

Commander Valiant nods at him, and Deaton stars running towards the closest exit.

“You four, with me,” he tells Liam, Stiles, Eri-Ka and Alis-Sen, who run along, part of the squad following them in a brisk pace.

As they head to the exit, another tremor shakes the building, and soon they find themselves among throngs of beings trying to escape 500 Republica, heading off to the skydocks.

Coming closer to the edge, Stiles can see a speeder in flames and a public transport pod going down and down and down the pit beneath the tall building — it could have been a simple accident, but that wouldn’t explain the continuous tremors through the construction.

“Master, look!” Liam pulls at his sleeve, pointing up with his other hand, and Stiles looks up — the sky is still visible, but through the sheer layer of a defensive shield. The shields of the district had been raised. Above it, there is something very wrong with the skyline itself: a thousand lights kept hitting on the shield, apparently trying to wear it thin, and Stiles has a terrible feeling.

“We are under attack!” Eri-Ka exclaims, and he turns to stare at her, seeing in her eyes the same incredulity he has on his own face.

Coruscant has _never_ been the target of an attack in this war so far. It hasn’t been so for thousand of years. The Capital of the Galaxy, its heart and pockets, the one place where the now feared Jedi had their home, where the revered Senate made their decisions, where the admired and immensely respected Chancellor Uther kept the Galaxy from falling apart.

If Coruscant fell, _everything was lost_.

If Chancellor Pendragon should be taken or killed…

Stiles doesn’t even finish that thought when Deaton is suddenly by his side.

“Stiles, you, Eri-Ka and Alis-Sen, find the Chancellor. Make sure he’s safe.”

He nods at his older Master, and turns to Liam, seeing fear written all over the kid’s face.

“Go back to the Temple, and help in any way you can there. _Do not_ leave the place once you get there, do you understand me, Liam?” His voice is urgent, and he knows he’s not doing much to assuage the kid’s fear, but better he be afraid and alive, than caught in the crossfire of an attack of this scale.

“Yes, Master,” the boy tells him, breaking into a run towards the exit.

He barely catches up to the other two Jedi, and they head out towards the Senate building, determined to track down Chancellor Uther and keep him safe at all costs.

**X**

The way back to the Senate building is hard enough on a normal day, even if the distance is short, seeing as they were so close to 500 Republica — add to it the chaos of the attack, people running about the streets scared and afraid, and Stiles is absolutely sure they only ever made it to the Senate building out of sheer force of will and help from the Force.

The three of them rush into the place, and Stiles looks around frantically, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees a tall blond man just a few steps from them.

“King Arthur!” he shouts, and the man turns around, his handsome face closed off and determined. Stiles prays to the stars that the man won’t try and fight against the invaders, or get into a fighter jet to join the defense he’s sure is already being organized — he knows King Arthur has his own Army to command, but they don’t need the added stress of dealing with the son of the Chancellor being in the thick of the fight.

“Master Stiles,” the man nods, and Stiles looks behind him, but sees no sign of the Chancellor, “Master Alis-Sen, Master Eri-Ka,” he adds at the other Jedi, and they all nod politely in greeting, but their urgency is clear on their faces.

“Have you been with the Chancellor today?”

“I haven’t. He has no official appointments today.”

“Do you have any idea where he could be?” Eri-Ka asks, a bit frantic, and Arthur frowns, looking grave — he knows his father’s safety is imperative in a moment like this.

“He’s probably at home,” the man tells them, and actually raises an eyebrow when Eri-Ka curses out loud.

“500 Republica,” Alis-Sen says, her voice full of frustration.

Stiles shakes his head, frustration finding its way into him too.

“We were just there, blast it all.”

The three Jedi trade a resigned look, knowing they have to make their way back to where they had just come from.

“I’ll find us some speeder bikes,” Eri-Ka says, rushing out, Alis-Sen right behind her.

“Is the Chancellor in any real danger?” King Arthur asks, and Stiles turns to look at the man instead of rushing out too.

It’s as much concern for the Galaxy as it is for his father, and Stiles swallows dryly at the desperation he recognizes in the man’s voice — he has no idea what that must feel like. To feel so much for someone, to love them so deeply that their safety is more important than his own. This lack of knowledge about sentiment for a single being is a part of being a Jedi, he knows: giving in to this kind of feeling is exactly what leads them to the Dark Side, and that is something he can’t even toy with in such a moment. However, he can’t help but feel a bit jealous — how long has it been since he even _thought_ of his father in any way? Of his homeland, of the child he once called his friend, of the man who saved him from a doomed ship? Being a padawan had been the first step into making him into what he is now, but becoming a Knight, and a Master, and teaching a padawan of his own had changed him deeply — he couldn’t afford to try and teach Liam something he didn’t live himself, so he let go of all those feeling and memories. He was a Jedi, first and foremost — King Arthur was a warrior, but he was also _a son_ , and that realization stung fiercely within him.

“We will find him, your Majesty,” he tells Arthur in the most reassuring voice he can muster — King Arthur is savvy enough in politics to know that any attack to Coruscant would have at its heart an attempt to take their leader away from them, the one man capable of reassuring the people of the Galaxy that they had a chance of winning this war, because his sense of duty and honor wouldn’t let him settle for anything else. For all his failings, for all that many people disagreed with him on many issues — Stiles himself among them — Uther Pendragon is far beyond a simple ruler, he is a symbol of all they are fighting for, and the Jedi would lay down their lives by the thousands to save him, for saving him meant saving democracy itself.

“I am coming with you,” the King states, and Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes, but just barely — he admires King Arthur immensely, and they share many views on many things, or so he would believe from the on-goings of the Senate he hears about even when he’s away, but the man rushes into danger, seeming to be attracted to it like a moth to a flame, and this is not the moment for it. _This_ is what the Jedi try to avoid by forfeiting their bonds to anyone outside the Jedi Order — the lack of better judgment, the rush to leave behind their own obligations to help the ones they care about.

“With all due respect, your Majesty, there is no one better equipped to guard the Chancellor than the Jedi. Three Masters will be with him at all times, and we will keep him safe. _Your_ responsibility is to coordinate the counterattack we’ll surely need as soon as this chaos is past us. You are much more useful to us _here_ , in the Senate, protecting the ones who can’t protect themselves, and available for the fight after it than you are by _the Chancellor_ ’s side.” He puts emphasis on the words, reminding the King that is not about his _father_ , but about the man who is an icon for the whole Republic, “This is our duty. Chancellor Uther is the heart of the Republic, and we are sworn to defend it to the very end.”

The King merely nods at him then, looking angry, but also determined, just in time for Eri-Ka to call him from the steps, speeder bikes waiting for them. Stiles nods at him and runs out, but just as he’s leaving, Arthur calls out to him again.

“Master Stiles!” He stops and turns, and in that moment, Stiles doesn’t see the King, doesn’t see the politician or the warrior: he sees a son, and it breaks his heart, “Protect him,” he asks, and Stiles faces him unflinchingly.

“With my own life, your Majesty,” he promises the man in a solemn tone, and turns to leave, not waiting for an answer.

The longer they take to reach the Chancellor, the more danger he’s in.

Their way back to 500 Republica is even worse than it had been before, because the attack on their shield isn’t relenting at all, and Stiles can sense the fear and despair of the population around him like a buzz on his skin.

They get off their bikes long minutes later, rushing to the Chancellor’s apartment, only stopping when the three of them run into the Chancellor’s Red Guards at his door. The men and women of the Red Guard are chosen and trained by the finest warriors of Camelot, Uther’s home planet, and they wear their own steel in their weapons and armor, resistant even to the strikes of lightsabers. They would lay down their lives to save the Chancellor’s — but even they are not as good as the Jedi, or as well prepared to defend their political leader.

“Where’s the Chancellor?” Eri-Ka demands, and the Guards only stare at her for a moment, their swords at their sides, trying to look intimidating — which would work on many people, but not on three Jedi Masters.

“She asked _where is the Chancellor_?” Alis-Sen asks then, and Stiles almost takes a step back — of the three of them, Alis-Sen is the one with the sunny disposition and kind word for everyone. To see her lose her patience is akin to see the beginnings of a hurricane when you are right in the middle of it — it’s a sight to behold, and also deadly, her blue skin tinted darker around her cheeks, her two long lekku seeming to vibrate in anger, and the Red Guard right in front of her seems to question his orders for a second as Eri-Ka smirks at him.

“This way,” he ends up saying, and guides them through the apartment to a vast main room. The far wall follows the curve of the building, and the glass lets them see through the clouds and the sky, the shield over them clearly faltering at times, not able to hold up against the relentless attack of the Separatist forces.

Chancellor Pendragon is pacing the room, and doesn’t even look up when they enter. His regal posture immediately reminds Stiles of King Arthur, and he can see the resemblance clearly for a second, but while Arthur always seems ready to break out in a kind word, Uther’s face is like a storm, his steps sure and heavy.

“Why is he still here?” Eri-Ka asks Senator Aredian, Uther’s closest adviser, and the man shakes his head, seeming just at odds with the Chancellor’s decision to stay as the Jedi are right now.

“He refuses to leave,” the man’s voice is filled with concern, and Stiles steps away from them to intercept the man pacing the room.

“Supreme Chancellor, we are here to escort you to a shelter.”

They aren’t strangers, Uther and him — the man himself had commended him for several battles and had been partially responsible for his Master status thanks to services rendered to the Republic — and yet, he barely looks at him for a second, stopping to regard the Jedi in the room for a moment, before simply going around Stiles and continuing his pacing.

“I thank you for your concern, Master Stiles, but that won’t be necessary. I am needed precisely where I am now to coordinate the counterattack, and to keep up with the communication at the front.”

“Supreme Chancellor, you will have access to means of communications at the bunker,” Alis-Sen reminds him in her most persuasive tone, but the man ignores her completely.

“Uther, this is the very reason why we had so many security drills the past few years. We _must_ get you to a safe place,” Senator Aredian pleads with him, but the Chancellor ignores him too, continuing with his pacing, way too close to the windows for Stiles to feel comfortable.

“Chancellor, please, listen to reason,” Alis-Sen tries, and the man stops again, his whole face contorting in anger and pride, his back to the window, facing the room.

“I shall not be run out of my own home in the face of danger. The people of the Galaxy do not put their trust in me because they know I’ll run at the first sign of peril, they do it because they know I’ll stand my ground until—”

They never do get to hear until _what_ , because at that moment there’s an explosion — the final pieces of the defensive shield around the windows collapsing with a deafening noise.

“DOWN!” Stiles yells, throwing himself over the Chancellor and pinning him to the floor.

“Unhand me this second!” the man yells at him, just as the window explodes into a million pieces, and Stiles uses the Force to protect Uther from the rubble and the explosion itself.

When he dares look up again, an assault craft, ready to deploy its droids, is approaching the building at maximum speed.

He hears Eri-Ka gasping behind him, but he wastes no time in getting the Chancellor off the floor, looking around the room quickly, and seeing Alis-Sen getting up too, while helping Senator Aredian.

“Are you ready to go now, sir?” he asks Uther, who is getting pieces of glass off his robes as they all rush off the room and into the corridor. The Red Guards make their way into the apartment, and Stiles trusts they’ll be able to hold off some of the droid attacks, but not all of them — they are as far from safety as they could be.

“We can’t take the speeder bikes again, we’ll never make it,” Alis-Sen says as they rush to a platform, and Eri-Ka is running at full speed in front of them. At some point, Senator Aredian had managed to compose himself, and now stands beside Uther, taking over the task of helping him along, leaving Stiles free to try and figure their way out of this.

He runs to Eri-Ka, and she has her comlink activated.

“Deaton, Grievous is onworld,” she tells the man on the other side, and Stiles’s eyes go wide with the information — that is why she had gasped back at the apartment.

If that monster is capable of infiltrating 500 Republica, Stiles is pretty sure they can’t just take the Chancellor to a public shelter, or even use the prepared route for his escape. Staring ahead as Eri-Ka and Deaton try and find a way out of it, Stiles finds the closest turbolift to inspect it.

“How far down does this go?” he asks no one in particular, and it’s Aredian who answers.

“As far as the lowest level. Why?” Stiles doesn’t answer him directly, but turns to Alis-Sen, who is now hovering near Eri-Ka.

“If we can reach the platform, we can take him by train. It won’t get us to the bunker itself, but we can figure our way out from there, it’s as close as we’ll be able to get.”

The other two Jedi stare at him and nod at the same time, Alis-Sen rushing to help Aredian and Uther into the turbolift before anyone else.

On the comlink, Eri-Ka is informing Deaton of their new plan.

“He’ll meet us at the train.”

Stiles nods gravely, and tries to find his center in the Force, his calm and peace to face whatever will come their way now — Grievous is _on their planet_. He can’t even start to understand the repercussions this will have on the war should they fail their mission and lose the Chancellor, but he does his best to ignore it all — it’s no use wondering about the future or thinking back to the past: there’s only the present.

When they finally get to the lowest level, Deaton is already waiting for them there, ready to help and board the Chancellor into one of the cars — the one with less civilians in it.

“This makes no sense,” Deaton says quietly beside Stiles, already on the train, tracks held up by the best technology available on the Galaxy, running fast over the canyon underneath, and hoping for the best. Eri-Ka and Alis-Sen are each stationed at one of the doors of the car, while Aredian and Uther sit close by — the former looking grave, but ready to defend his close friend, and the latter looking more shocked than anything else.

“What doesn’t?” Stiles asks, and Deaton’s frown deepens, as he turns to stare right at Stiles, still talking quietly, clearly not wanting the politicians to hear what he has to say.

“Not everything can be traced back to Count Peter, Stiles. How did Grievous know to attack 500 Republica, and not the Senate? The Count is otherwise engaged at the moment, and there is no way for him to simply _know_ that the Chancellor wouldn’t be at work right now. This makes no sense.”

Stiles looks at the Master Jedi for a second, searching for what he is not saying, like he used to do when he was the man’s padawan, and tried to find out more about things he shouldn’t know anything about at all.

“It makes no sense, unless someone from his close circle leaked the information.”

Deaton doesn’t answer immediately, but he sighs tiredly a few seconds later.

“We all knew Darth Sidious had infiltrated the highest levels of the Senate, we just didn’t know how far it could reach,” he stops talking for a moment, looking at the Chancellor sitting across from them, the person they had to protect at all costs, “Now we do.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, and quietly the two of them watch the city passing by fast — suddenly, Deaton frowns, looking out the window more closely, and Stiles looks out too: two droid fighters are coming fast towards them, trying to overtake the train.

Stiles takes a step back from the windows just in time, as cannon fire from one of the fighters hits the side of the train they were in just a second before, and he rushes to the Chancellor’s side.

“Stiles, Alis-Sen, take the Chancellor and Senator Aredian to the front car, now!”

“It’s full! I don’t think we can get through it!” Alis-Sen says, but Stiles is already working on the doors, using the Force to pry them open, and pulling Aredian and Uther with him. He goes ahead, pushing people out of the way, and praying they won’t get caught in the crossfire, or get hurt because of them, but at this moment, he has to make Uther his topmost priority — he has no time to think of the civilians who will fall in case this goes badly.

Behind him, Chancellor Uther’s steps are as quick as they can be, Aredian behind him, ushering the man, voice trembling in fear as he asks Uther to move along, as Alis-Sen brings up the rear, shouting at the people in the cars to keep calm, and get down to protect themselves. At the front car, as far away from the battle as they can get, Alis-Sen and Stiles trade a look, putting both men they are charged to protect behind them, and getting their lightsabers out and turning them on — they should make up a backup plan, but in a moving train full of civilians there’s not much room to improvise. He’ll just have to keep on holding hope that Deaton and Eri-Ka will be able to stop the attacks from where they are.

The train shakes again, and Stiles chances a look outside — vulture droids are chasing the ship now, luckily keeping on attacking the car with Deaton in it, and the train hasn’t yet stopped moving. If only they can make it to their station, they may even make out of it alive.

Stiles doesn’t know for how long they stand there, guarding the two politicians, and hoping everything will be okay, but he does know that no second feels longer than when the four of them hear a crash on the roof of the train, and then steps — measured, practiced, as if made by heavy machinery, pacing down the length of the train before jumping in.

General Grievous is _in the train_ with them.

It irks Stiles to no end knowing he’s stuck in a defensive position, not able to go outside and _help_ his former Master and his friend, but his mission is to keep the Chancellor safe, and should Grievous manage to overcome Deaton and Eri-Ka, he and Alis-Sen are his last line of defense.

The train jolts once again, coming to a halt with a screeching sound, and Stiles can hear the sounds of lightsabers over their heads, on the roof of the train. Suddenly, there’s a crashing sound, and steps hurrying down and towards them, and he and Alis-Sen get ready to fight to their last breath — when the door is blasted open, Deaton is staring at them, Eri-Ka behind him, both with blood on their robes and faces, but mostly fine.

“Let’s go. You must get them to safety,” Deaton says tiredly, and they put away their weapons, hurrying out.

Finally, they’ll be able to do their duty, and guard the Supreme Chancellor at the bunker, where he should have been all along.

Before hurrying off to do their duty, Stiles stops near Deaton, such a clear question in his eyes the man doesn’t even need him to voice it.

“Grievous fell down the canyon.”

“But why didn’t he just blow the train up to pieces? He had more than enough chance to do so.”

Master Deaton scowls before answering.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Stiles. Now, hurry. Stay with the Chancellor until we have cleared all of this,” he says, gesturing to the chaos around them, and Stiles nods before running after Alis-Sen, Eri-Ka, Pendragon and Aredian.

He doesn’t fail to notice that the Korun hadn’t said what he was thinking, and it makes Stiles apprehensive.

What suspicion could be so bad that his own former Master didn’t want him to consider?

**X**

There are times when all Master Alis-Sen can think about is the days before the war, when she could still just be a Security expert on the Temple, helping people along and keeping them safe, doing her best as a Sentinel, away from the fighting and the deaths.

It was, of course, not real — the illusion that everything was peaceful around them, an illusion kept by the Jedi at the Temple, but it served her well for a long time.

Now, things are different, and she finds herself more often than not with a lightsaber in hand, having to fight for her life as much as for the people around her, defending her friends from their deaths, defending a Republic that not many of them even believe in anymore — but the alternative is just so much darker, and so much worse, none of them even dare contemplate it.

The bunker they are in to protect the Chancellor isn’t very big, but it serves its purpose well — there’s a small niche for the communication center, a small space with chairs and two small cots for resting, provisions for weeks if need be, and room enough to hold the security needed in the room with him comfortably.

Right then, Senator Aredian is sitting on one of the cots, face withdrawn and pale, even if he keeps his head held high, bruising along his neck from the impacts they suffered on the train, despite the fact that they hadn’t even come close to Grievous.

She trembles to think what would have happened to them if they had to actually face him.

Chancellor Uther stands regal against the communications console, inactive on his end at the moment, lest someone try and track him through it, but paying close attention to the movement on the screens all the same — should something go wrong, they’ll know just as soon as it happens. This one-way mode of communication is one she helped make up herself, and she’s quite proud of the final result — she just wishes they hadn’t put it to the test in such a bleak moment.

In the safe room with them, there are four Red Guards — with four times that outside — trained by King Arthur’s forces, the best of the best where simple warriors are concerned. They stay near the only door, ready to guard it with their own lives for the Chancellor. Along with the sixteen Red Guards posted along the corridor leading to the bunker, a whole score of clone troopers are guarding the outermost entry to it — they would already be as safe as they could be with that number of soldiers, troopers and warriors alone.

Eri-Ka is nearest to the door, just a few steps behind the Red Guards — her lightsaber is in her hand, and she’s taken to lighting it up and waving it as if practicing a strike, and then making the yellow light go away again every few minutes. Her long blond hair is tied at the base of her neck, so it won’t get in the way if they have to fight, and even her dark-brown robes seem to be thrumming with electricity — she’s as beautiful as she’s deadly, and has quite a problem with her temper, the main reason why she’s never had a padawan to train (even if Alis-Sen has the strong suspicion she plays her volatile temper up a bit precisely not to have to train anyone). She turns her lightsaber on again, and Alis-Sen can hear Senator Aredian sighing at her back, prompting her to look at Eri-Ka with an eyebrow raised, but the woman ignores her silent plea, smirking instead.

“Knock it off, Eri-Ka,” Stiles tells her then, and the woman rolls her eyes, but complies with the request — Stiles just has that way about him, in which he and Eri-Ka always seem to be on the wrong side of their roles, as if he’s the older, more experienced guardian, and she’s the one who started fighting way too soon.

As young as Stiles is, he’s the one among the three of them who has already been training a padawan for over a year — also the one to have been Knighted at nineteen, and become a Master at only twenty-five. Being trained by Master Deaton himself, Alis-Sen knows many Jedi had feared for Stiles’s alliances for quite a while when he became an independent agent, and she knows the Council saw fit to pair him up with her or Eri-Ka, or both, in those first few years because they felt he wasn’t ready at all — but their fear, or Deaton’s fear, of what could happened should he continue on training the young human outweighed the risk of having a Knight so young.

Everyone in the Temple knows of his story, of course, but Stiles himself never seems to be quite aware of the admiration he caused in the younger members of their Order, and the fondness the older ones have always had for him — a child brought into the Temple out of death’s grip itself, rescued by the Order from an Outer Rim planet with no Force Sensitive history, picked to train with Master Deaton at only twelve — Stiles ignores all of that in lieu of just doing what is right, and keeping himself out of trouble as much as he can. Tall and broad shouldered, his dark brown hair longer than it used to be, but still short, he carries himself with a certainty and a sobriety that isn’t very common in someone so young. His padawan looks up to him, and his old Master is proud of him, and Alis-Sen is happy to count herself among his friends.

If there’s anyone in the world she would pick to be with her in such a dire situation, it would be Stiles and Eri-Ka — maybe ARC Scott, if the Order should permit it — because, for all that Stiles is all seriousness and sobriety at the Temple, out there, in the campaigns and sieges, among the ones he now calls friends, and who, she knows, many people consider just a little better than droids, Stiles is more carefree and happy than he ever is when he’s at the Temple. She knows, from talking to Deaton and Master Kilgharrah, when Stiles was a new Knight and traveling with her still, that he is more sensitive to the Force than most, and she also knows that being in Coruscant weighs on him much more than her or Eri-Ka, or even Liam, young as he is.

For most Jedi, the Temple is their home and place of peace, but she has a feeling that, as much as Stiles wishes it could be that for him too, out there, in the whole vast Galaxy, is where he’s the happiest.

He stands now at the center of the room, eyes glued to the door, lightsaber at the ready should they need it, and she lets herself smile for a second before teasing him.

“Is Roscoe ready?” she asks, and the young man turns to playfully glare at her, throwing his lightsaber from one hand to the other, and pretending he isn’t blushing just a bit.

“Yes, she is,” he answers, and smiles at her too, before turning to look on ahead, leaving her to smile to herself with his shy demeanor at something so simple — when he had gone to meditate and create the crystal for his lightsaber, for some reason he had come back convinced the crystal was a girl, and he decided to call her Roscoe. Every Jedi knows their weapon is their life, and creating new lightsabers had never been something one does lightly, and even more so these days, when the time to meditate and create the crystal out of the Force itself isn’t always possible. For Stiles, however, his weapon is an entity on its own, and he treats it with love and respect — something he has tried to pass along to his own padawan, but the kid doesn’t seem to have quite grasped it, because he still laughs every time someone mentions Roscoe to Stiles.

She knows that even that small piece of banter is irritating both the Chancellor and the Senator in there with them, but it helps the three of them, reminding them that, at the very least, they are together. She’s aware that a bond of friendship like theirs could lead them down a stray path, but she cannot help the fact that she loves the two Jedi in the room with her as much as she can allow herself to love anyone as an individual at all, being a Jedi, and she hopes that when the time comes, and should it ever happen, she’ll let them go into the Force without breaking her own heart.

It’s a risk she’s willing to take, and she knows both Eri-Ka and Stiles take it too.

She’s the one closest to the Chancellor — she, too, is staring at the door the whole time, ready to defend him if need be. Stiles, with his back to her, is closest to Senator Aredian where the man is sitting off to a side of the room, and Eri-Ka soon starts pacing the space between the Red Guards framing the door.

It’s when Eri-Ka stops and turns to stare at the door that Alis-Sen frowns at it too, Stiles with his blue lightsaber already on, and they turn theirs on too.

“I can feel something,” Stiles says, and they can feel it as well — a disturbance in the Force, not quite darkness, but something like the _void_ of anything at all.

She can feel the Chancellor turning around to face the door too, and Senator Aredian getting up from his cot, cortosi sword in his hand, just as Uther draws his own out.

They expect an attack at the door — blaster bolts, plasma bombs, ramming into it — if anyone should come to attack them.

What none of them expected is the door sliding open by simple command, revealing a blood bath on the outside.

Framed by the door is the most terrifying being in the whole Galaxy — General Grievous himself. His red eyes seem to glow with pure evil in a mask of black armor, blood sliding down his durasteel covered body and armorweave cape, as he inspects the interior of the room in a dead stare.

Behind him there are three monstrosities she dares not call creatures — over six feet tall, with red capes like the ones their master is carrying on his own shoulders, the infamous MagnaGuards flank him like loyal dogs — one of them dropping a Red Guard to the floor right as Grievous takes a step into the room, the man’s head separated from his body by the MagnaGuard’s hands alone. She and Stiles tighten their protection around Uther, and Senator Aredian runs to them, sword ready to attack, as willing to die for their ruler as the two of them.

Eri-Ka is the first one to attack, jumping up and over Grievous head, trying to stab him on the head from the ceiling, but one of the MagnaGuards jumps up too, snatching her from the air, and throwing her down. She leaps to her feet again, but the droid seemed to have expected that, and he simply holds his electrostaff up, tilting it towards her trajectory, and Alis-Sen has to bite back a scream of despair when Eri-Ka falls on his weapon. She still manages to get him on the legs with her yellow lightsaber, but the monster shakes his weapon free, and takes another step in as Grievous admires his pet’s handiwork — Alis-Sen could have sworn he is smirking behind that mask. Eri-Ka’s body hits the floor with a deafening thud, blood marring her robes and staining the floor, and Alis-Sen has to use all of her self-restraint not to run to her side.

The Red Guards are the next to fall — too stunned by his easy entrance to react as fast as the Jedi, they attack in unison against Grievous, and he swats them away like flies, a lightsaber in each of his hands as he moves in and out of their range for a few seconds, cutting off their hands, and then their heads as easy as if they were made of kindling.

She has never felt fear or despair this deep — she’s not used to losing because, so far, she’s never lost a battle. Stiles is just a step ahead of her, and they _know_ they have to take the Chancellor away from there, but _how_?

Suddenly, the odds seem impossible again.

Stiles takes a step ahead, then, and Grievous steps forward to meet him, side stepping his first thrust, and turning to attack him the next second, but Stiles manages to jump away, making Grievous turn his back on her and her charges.

She risks a glance at her back, and she just _knows_ Aredian would die to protect the man who was once his King, who is now his close friend and the Supreme Chancellor of the Galaxy, and it may be the only chance they get. She jumps ahead too, drawing the attention of the three MagnaGuards as Stiles whirls around Grievous, flashy style of fighting designed to attract attention and not to really win, because maybe, _maybe_ , if they can keep Grievous and his MagnaGuards occupied for long enough, Uther and Aredian can make their way out of the bunker and into safety — it’s a lot to wish for, but it’s all they have.

She twists to the side as one of the droids manages to catch her cloak, and another one darts by her, running full tilt towards the senator.

“Do not harm the politicians!” Grievous’ metallic voice barks an order, and the MagnaGuard changes tactics at the last second, going for a hand attack, instead of using its electrostaff.

Uther and Aredian clearly take that as a sign to attack too — now knowing they won’t be harmed — and, together, they bring one of the droids to pieces, even if the thing doesn’t stop fighting until it’s chopped to bits. She manages to disable one of the droids, and keep the other one occupied for long enough that Uther is already past her, and on his way to the door — Senator Aredian stops to help her, the men’s swords seeming to work better against the droids than their lightsabers, and she wants to yell at him to just _leave_ already, but she can’t, because right then Grievous seems to grow impatient in his duel with Stiles, and catches his gray robes by hand, throwing him to the floor with a sickening crack, making Stiles scream out on pain.

Aredian takes care of the last MagnaGuard, and Alis-Sen turns around just in time to see Stiles scrambling back, Grievous stalking after him, bowing down to catch Stiles’s lightsaber, his Roscoe, from the floor, seeming intent to kill her friend with his own weapon.

She lunges at him, but the cyborg swats her aside, and she’s on the floor beside Stiles when she sees him opening his eyes, and gasp in surprise.

Time freezes when she looks towards Grievous — his eyes widen just the slightest second, going less red, and almost blue for just for the fraction of a moment — and he seems to hesitate, before knocking Stiles out with the hilt of his lightsaber.

She looks to the door where three more MagnaGuards are keeping both Aredian and Uther occupied, and then she looks back at Grievous, again a monster with no hesitation in killing anyone who stands in his way.

She’s afraid, as afraid as she could ever be, and she’s desolated, with both her best friends dead right beside her, and the last thing she sees is Eri-Ka’s luminous yellow blade coming towards her for a killing strike.

And then she knows no more.


	9. Broken People, Broken Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ai, ai, ai Stiles, why.

Stiles awakes in the middle of battle — but the only sounds around him are the calm, hushing tones of the Temple’s Healing Ward, and the only battle is the one he remembers losing consciousness in the middle of.

_How is he alive?_

He tries to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder stops him, and he looks wildly to the side to see Master Mordred looking at him with a kind, albeit sad, smile on his face.

“Welcome back,” the man says, voice calm and controlled, despite being obviously hurt, and Stiles is deeply confused for a moment — Mordred wasn’t even _in Coruscant_ when they had been attacked by Grievous…

“Alis-Sen,” he calls, trying to hold onto the insane hope that she’ll be just alive as he is, miraculously escaped in whatever way had allowed him to live.

Mordred seems to swallow dryly before shaking his head slowly, and Stiles looks down again, closing his eyes and controlling his breathing — being a Jedi means allowing things, even things we love — to pass of our lives. How many times had Master Deaton told him that very same thing, how many times had he repeated that to Liam, and how many had Stiles himself thought he was ready for it, that he _knew_ what that meant, on any level?

He lets out a shaky breath, rubbing his eyes with his right hand.

“I assume Eri-Ka…”

“I’m sorry,” Mordred tells him as an answer, but Stiles waves it away, sitting up slowly, careful of his own body — although he doesn’t _feel_ hurt. Not physically.

There’s pain — oh, there’s plenty of pain, in his heart and his mind, and all around him. _Coruscant_ is suffering, and the Temple is aching, and he doesn’t even know if it’s his own pain that is that big, or if the whole planet is resonating in him and making it even worse.

His best friends, the two people he could always count and depend on when even his own Master had sent him away. The two women who had turned him into the Knight he had been and the Master he became. The ones who had always believed in him, even when he was nothing but a child playing at being a Knight, trying to hide how much he thought he didn’t deserve that title.

They are gone, forever, and for what? To save a Republic that is failing them all? To stop _one single man_ from dying? What kind of logic is that, in which one life is worth more than all the others? What kind of Galaxy are the Jedi defending that Uther Pendragon’s life is worth more than Alis-Sen’s and Eri-Ka’s, and all the troopers and guards dead in the attempt of protecting him?

He can feel anger growing within him like never before, wishing to blow up and out of him, to _hurt_ like he can’t even remember ever wanting to hurt anyone or anything ever before. He’s ready to say all of that to Mordred when another hand lands on his shoulder, and looking to his left side he sees Liam — big, bright blue eyes full of tears, trying so bravely not to let them fall, scared to hell and back, pale and afraid, but there, solid, beside him.

“I… I cleaned her up. And brought her to you,” he tells Stiles, giving him his lightsaber, and Stiles looks at Roscoe — the memory of the blue light shining in another man’s hands, his heart constricting painfully in his chest.

“Thank you, Liam,” he tells the boy, who gives him a watery smile, apparently not knowing what to say, what to do — maybe he doesn’t, not really.

“It was nothing,” the kid dismisses, and Stiles can see Mordred smiling softly on his other side, “You’re… You’re okay, right, Master?” he asks, voice trembling a bit, and Stiles takes a second to wonder what this kid must be feeling, left alone in the middle of a battlefield, his Master gone for… who knows how long has it been since the attack. No one to comfort him, because that’s not what Jedi _do_. They’re supposed to learn from loss and death, and become stronger, but Liam is a _kid_. Just a kid.

“I’m fine, young padawan,” he says, and Liam smiles, rubbing a hand on his cheek quickly, as if that would stop either Mordred or Stiles from seeing that single tear fall, “I’m not going anywhere till you’re good and ready to stay away from me,” he adds, squeezing Liam’s hand, and the kid only nods, trying to regain his composure, but not really succeeding.

He shouldn’t make such promises — _especially_ him, with the training he had had, and with the Knighting he got, but he can’t help himself. This kid is _his responsibility_ , and all he needs right now is knowing his Master is alive and well and won’t leave him before he’s ready. It’s such a simple thing to do that Stiles can’t bring himself to deny him that.

“They found your lightsaber by your side, in the bunker,” Mordred’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Stiles is suddenly reminded that the Chancellor had _been taken_. He turns wide eyes at Mordred, but he has a feeling the man wouldn’t be here calmly talking to him if the Chancellor wasn’t okay.

“You and Merlin came in just in time to save the day?” he asks, almost teasingly, but he can’t stop a little bit of bitterness from slipping into his tone — as much as he, or any other Jedi, tries their best to do their part, it always seems like the Chosen One is the single one of them who manages to succeed every time.

“Something like that,” Mordred’s tells him with a rueful, tired smile, “The Chancellor is back in Coruscant, and safe. The planet is still recovering, but that is to be expected.”

Stiles nods then, trying to find his center in the Force, to calm himself down and just _be_ for a moment — his thoughts and feelings are in disarray, in disorder, in chaos. He can’t give in to everything he’s feeling or he’ll lose himself.

He had always felt the Dark Side as more present in Coruscant than in the rest of the Galaxy, but never had it felt quite this _oppressive_.

“The security footage is mostly gone from the bunker, we don’t know who took it, it might have been Grievous himself, or one of his MagnaGuards, but no one really knows what happened,” Mordred tells him, and it’s clear he wants to know the very same thing many Jedi must be wondering too: how is he still alive? Why didn’t Grievous take his lightsaber with him, when they all know it’s the trophy he takes from each Jedi he kills?

He takes a deep breath, searching Mordred’s face for something, anything, that would give him the courage to confess, to tell the truth — he knows _why_.

He just doesn’t expect anyone else to believe him.

“Liam,” he turns to his padawan, who still looks nervous, maybe even because of Mordred’s presence — he and Merlin are, nowadays, something of a legend in the Temple, and Liam hasn’t had the time to get used to being around the man, “Could you go to our quarters, and get me some fresh clothes?”

The kid stares at him for a moment, knowing Stiles could have anyone do that right now, and realizing that whatever is going to be said right then are not for his ears. He sighs, but nods, conformed with the fact that if he has to know, his Master will tell him later.

“Yes, Master,” the kid tells him and leaves, but not without squeezing his hand one last time before leaving.

The two Jedi Masters watch as the padawan leaves, and when the door to his room is closed again, silence heavy around them, Stiles just stares at Mordred, waiting.

He doesn’t really know what to say right now. He doesn’t know if he himself believes in whatever it is that he saw at the bunker.

“What happened after the Chancellor was taken?” he asks instead of saying anything else, and Mordred sits at the foot of his bed, sighing and looking tired and worn out at that moment like Stiles had never seen him before.

“He and Senator Aredian were taken into Grievous’ ship — the General managed to escape,” Mordred tells him, looking away, as if lost in thought, and he misses the relieved sigh Stiles gives almost involuntarily, “There were no other survivors from the Separatists. Count Peter…” he trails off, and Stiles squints at him for a moment, still lost in the thought that Grievous has escaped.

“He didn’t…” he starts, and Mordred shakes his head.

“He didn’t make it. Killed in the attempt of killing the Chancellor, from what I’ve gathered — I was, much like you were for the past five days, unconscious when it happened.”

“So Merlin killed him,” he states, and Mordred looks at him properly this time, a frown marring his face.

“He did whatever he had to do to save the Chancellor, to save the Republic, like all of us do.”

Stiles doesn’t answer to that — doesn’t go back into what he had been thinking earlier, of the sacrifices they all make for a man, for a Republic, that doesn’t seem to be what they want it to be, what they _need_ it to be. Never before in his life has he doubted something so fiercely, but he’s sure Mordred would never understand it, because that is not who Mordred _is_.

“So all of them are gone now,” he says quietly, more to himself than Mordred, allowing himself to mourn the man who had meant so much to him as a child, even if he had been lost many years before his death, “All the people who’ve ever protected me,” he finishes, voice sad and lost, and he knows he shouldn’t feel like this — he is a Master, a Jedi Guardian with a padawan to teach and train, a whole Order to uphold, a path to follow, twenty-six years old, and an adult by any standards, but losing all of them in one fell swoop, the people who have been there for him, in one way or another, has shook him deeply — there’s only Master Deaton left.

And one more, it seems.

“I’m still here,” Mordred tells him, face solemn, and Stiles shakes his head, looking down before staring at the man again.

“It’s not an accusation, Mordred, it’s just what it is — they are all gone, save for Master Deaton. People seem to keep falling down like flies in this war. Ten years is way too long for any conflict, and we can’t seem to end it!” he exclaims, suddenly filled with exasperation and sadness and frustration, all at once, “Every battle we fight seem to create a dozen more, every system we win back sparks a revolution in five different ones, every person we save causes the death of ten others. I just… Can’t see the Light anymore. Coruscant is…” he stops, not knowing how to continue.

“Drowning in Darkness,” Mordred completes for him, and Stiles can only sigh, even if it makes him less uncomfortable, knowing he isn’t the only one feeling this, “I felt it too, as soon as we landed.” The man leans forward then, his blue eyes sparkling with kindness and belief, and Stiles _envies_ that for a moment, wishing he, too, could be filled with such conviction for their mission that he could see their victories as a way to end their war and not just the root for even more conflict, “But the end is near, Stiles. Without Count Peter, the Separatists will be lost. He was their political leader, all they have left now is Grievous, and he will be hunted down and stopped soon enough.”

“So you haven’t found him yet,” he states, and Mordred shakes his head.

“We are still waiting on more intel, but it won’t be long now. Then I’m going after him. I’ll end this, Stiles, I swear.”

Stiles’ heart starts beating faster then, a desperate need to _do something_ filling him, and, suddenly, Morgana’s words come back to him.

“Promise me you’ll save him, Mordred,” he asks the man who startles, eyes widening, and he looks at Stiles as if he has gone insane, which can be argued that he _has_.

But he _knows_ Grievous, he _knows_ the man he had been, and he cannot, for the life of him, let him be hunted down and killed like an animal, like the monster he’s changed into, not when he _knows_ he can save him — Morgana told him so, and as much as he doesn’t believe in prophecies, as much as he doesn’t like the idea that they exist, this one time, he’ll give in, and he’ll try to make it come true, because _it’s all he has_.

Maybe Mordred’s job is to end this war, maybe Merlin’s destiny is to restore balance to the Force, but Stiles’s mission is to save the man who’s saved him as a child, and he knows, from the bottom of his heart, that he _is meant to be saved_.

“Surely you don’t mean Grievous?” the man asks, finally, and Stiles comes closer, speaking in a hushed whisper, because, even if he knows the Temple is a sacred place, he also knows what he’s about to ask Mordred isn’t something any of the other Masters would consent to. Mordred is his last hope.

“Have you seen him up close? Do you know who he is?” he asks, and Mordred frowns, clearly thinking back on his encounters with General Grievous, but Stiles is sure he wouldn’t have seen it, wouldn’t have noticed, because it’s not… it’s not the same man.

“Stiles, he’s a cyborg. Whoever you think he may have been before…”

“It’s General Hale,” he tells the other Master and Mordred’s eyes widen, his face a mask of surprise, “I’m sure of it, Mordred, I’ve seen him. He let me live. He left my lightsaber behind. He didn’t kill me when he killed all the others because he’s _seen me_ , he _recognized_ me, and he _let me live_.”

“How can you be sure?” Mordred asks in a whisper, and Stiles snorts in incredulity.

“What other explanation do you have for what happened in that bunker? We were outnumbered. The MagnaGuards killed Eri-Ka, all the Red Guards, all the troopers. When Alis-Sen and I thought we had made a path for Aredian and the Chancellor to escape, three more MagnaGuards showed up, and as good as Aredian and Uther are with a sword, they were no match for _three_ of them. He could have killed me as easily as swatting away a fly, but he didn’t. I saw it in his eyes, Mordred, _he knew who I was_. He hesitated, he let me live.”

“That doesn’t mean he can be saved, Stiles. That doesn’t even mean he’s General Hale — maybe they have some other part to their plan, maybe he didn’t even consider you important enough to have you killed…” but even as he’s saying that, Stiles can see it on his face that he doesn’t really believe it.

“Then why kill Alis-Sen? I’m not a prideful man, Mordred, but I’m just as good a Master as she was. Just as dangerous as Eri-Ka, much more skilled in combat than any of the Red Guards and the Troopers — why me? Why would he leave _me_ behind?” His eyes run over Mordred’s face, desperate to find some way, _any_ way to convince the man to at least _try_ , “I recognized him — he’s changed, he’s transformed, turned into a monster, I don’t know how, but, Mordred, he _can be saved_ , I _know_ he can. The Separatists, the Sith, they did something to him.”

“Stiles, it may well be that he simply decided to join forces with the Confederacy by his own volition. With the way Kalee was left—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Stiles interrupts him.

“And whose fault is that but the Jedi’s? Our own? Even if he did join them on his own, that wasn’t the man I remembered — that is no _man_ at all, that’s no Kaleesh. We _owe_ it to him to at least try, Mordred. Promise me you’ll try.”

“Stiles, by killing Grievous we may well end this war!” Mordred argues, his voice a tiny bit exasperated, as if he can’t even see why he has to explain that to another Master.

“Isn’t that what we were saying about Count Peter? And about so many other sieges and revolutions we ended? There’s always just _one more thing_ we have to accomplish to get this war ended, and yet, every time we get it done, another thing comes up! Maybe we should stop _destroying_ things, and think about _saving them_. Isn’t that what we are for? Isn’t that what you promised me, you and Morgana, on Kalee, before you brought me here, into this life, that we would help people? Keep the peace? I grew up thinking I would be doing good, and yet all I’ve done so far is war — and I am good at it, Mordred, you _know_ I am, but it doesn’t mean I see the point to it. We are preaching things we don’t practice anymore, and I _need_ to do something to help… someone. Anyone. I need to save the one person I still have who didn’t abandon me at all, who didn’t leave me behind be it by the hands of another or by their own faults. Promise me you’ll try.”

“Stiles, I can’t make that promise. The war—”

“You promised him you’d keep me safe, Mordred. You promised him when he gave me to you,” his voice is trembling now, because thinking back on his father, his planet, Lydia and Kalee is hurting him now like it never did before, now that he can look back on all the people he abandoned and never looked back on, on the life he’d never live — and it had all been worth it because he was a Jedi, he helped people, he _saved_ them, but now? Now that he has to face the fact that he’s doing more harm than good, now that his friends are dead? It hurts, like nothing else ever did, “You made him a promise you didn’t keep,” he goes on, eyes marred by tears he won’t let fall, not for anything, and his voice is rough, but firm, determined even though he can see how much he’s hurting Mordred, “You had your own duties, and your own destiny, and I’ve accepted that — but you left me with a Master who didn’t want this burden, who let me become a Knight way too soon. You didn’t keep your promise to General Hale, so promise me you’ll keep yours to me — save him.”

“Stiles, I don’t know that I can,” the man tells him brokenly, and Stiles shakes his head, filled with anger and frustration — because he knows he’ll never get this chance. The Council would never let him go after Grievous himself — as good as he is as a Guardian, he is no Mordred, no Deaton, no Merlin. He can’t take Grievous on his own, they’d never let him go, and the _one man_ who can save General Hale won’t do it.

Before he can say anything else, Mordred goes on, seeming determined to make Stiles understand his point of view.

“If I do this — if I save him _for you_ , because _you_ asked, and if yet he _continues_ to be the same man he has been in the last ten years — each and every single life he claims, each and every single action he takes against others, they will be on _your_ account, _yours_ to carry, _your_ burden. If he survives me to burn down whole systems, to take over the whole Republic, would you be able to _live with it_? Would you forgive him for all of it? Would you forgive _me_ for allowing myself to be swayed by you? Would you forgive _yourself_ for all of it? Because, Stiles, if _that_ happens, all of _those_ victims will be _yours_ as much as if you had killed them yourself — your own responsibility. Is this a choice you’re truly willing to make on the off-chance that there is still something inside him of the man who saved you once over twenty years ago?”

Stiles keeps quiet for a moment, staring at Mordred, seeing how much the man is hurting for not being able to agree to what Stiles is asking, not without compromising everything he believes in.

“What if it was Merlin?” he asks, simply, voice quiet. Mordred’s face shows shock and betrayal, and Stiles knows he shouldn’t use his former padawan against him like this, but it’s his last hope.

“It’s not the same.” It’s the man’s answer, and Stiles can’t stop himself from snorting bitterly — of course it isn’t. Merlin is the Chosen One, while General Hale is just another Kaleesh lost to battle, “Merlin was my padawan, unlike anyone in the whole Order, he had no other model but me. If he ever failed his destiny — if he ever failed to uphold what we are _supposed_ to uphold — that would have been my own lack of guidance, my own blindness to his faults, and, _yes_ , I _would_ probably spare him, but I’d also carry the guilt _gladly_ because it would have been _my own,_ either way, for allowing him to stray.” He sighs, putting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, his lips pressed thin. “I just wouldn’t wish you to have to do the same, at least without thinking about what it means. I knew what I was doing when I chose to be his master, come hell or high water. Do _you_ truly know what you’re asking?”

Stiles breathes deeply before answering, knowing Mordred is actually giving him a chance to make sense — to make him see whatever it was that Stiles had seen.

“When you decided to train Merlin, even though the Council didn’t want you to, you _knew_ that was your path. You _knew_ your destinies lay together, whatever might happen from there on out — you decided to take on that task with no other thought to your personal feelings on the matter, or whether you’d suffer from it or curse the day you decided to train him. You were _certain_ you had to do it, maybe the Force itself guided you there, but you _knew_ — and I tell you, Mordred, I will gladly accept this burden, because I _know_ this is my path. Saving him is what I’m meant to do.”

The man shakes his head again, a sad smile on his face.

“I thought your path was being a Jedi.”

He holds Mordred’s stare for a long moment before speaking again.

“My path is to obey the will of the Force. Maybe being a Jedi is part of it, but so is saving him.”

The other Master nods at him, then, but Stiles knows better than to take that for an agreement to his plea.

Liam gets back at that moment, looking between them nervously before coming in. Mordred gets up, and Stiles bites down on his anger, trying to let it go, but he can’t quite manage it.

“I still can’t promise you I’ll be able to do it, I may not even have the chance. But I’ll promise you _this_ , Stiles: I’ll uphold the Code,” Mordred tells him, squeezing his hand once again, and Stiles lets out a deep breath because it’s not _good enough_.

“Talk to Morgana,” he finally tells the man, his voice cutting and cold, and he sees surprise all over his face again, “Maybe you’ll do it for her, even if you won’t do it for me.”

Mordred looks as if he wants to say something else, but Stiles turns to Liam and asks for his help to get into his fresh clothes, ignoring the man completely.

He can only hope Morgana will be able to convince him, or all Stiles will have left is leave the Order altogether and hunt General Hale on his own.

**X**

Mordred’s refusal to help General Hale eats at him for the whole night, and he’s barely able to sleep at all once he gets back to his quarters — he is physically fine, no damage lasting from his encounter with Grievous, and he is, technically, fit for duty once again.

A part of him wants to go — soon, away, far from Coruscant and all it represents. How have all the Masters who stay here not gone mad from the oppressive atmosphere he can’t even begin to fathom, but going away also means not knowing. He wouldn’t be kept informed if he’s in the battlefields — and there _are_ battlefields. As much as Mordred seems to think that the war would be over as soon as Grievous is captured, Stiles knows it won’t.

He feels as if it never will.

Sighing, he looks out from the balcony in his quarters, trying to calm himself down — he can sense Liam sleeping fitfully in his own room just a few steps away, but it’s the only place where peace seems to reign right now. His inner thoughts are in turmoil, and he can’t _calm down_. Never before had he felt this out of sorts, not even as a child in that Yam’rii ship had he felt this amount of despair, as if it’s more than just his own — he feels as if he’s feeling everyone’s hopelessness and he’s _drowning_ in it.

There’s a knock on his door then, and he startles a bit, not expecting anyone this late — hoping it isn’t another emergency, he opens the door to find ARC Scott waiting for him on the other side. The clone’s face is a mask of worry and fond exasperation, and Stiles isn’t really expecting the hug the man gives him — fierce and strong, however brief, as if Scott is trying to make sure Stiles is actually _here_.

“They only told me you had woken up now, they wouldn’t let me in to see you before,” he tells the Jedi, and Stiles has to, once again, struggle with his anger.

Scott has done just as much for the Republic as any Jedi who’s been to war, and yet, he’s never treated the same. They’ve been fighting side by side for almost seven years now, he is the closest person he has outside of Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka… Well, the one person he has now, the only one he dares call a friend, the one who’s mentored Liam in the affairs of war as much as Stiles has.

“I’m fine,” he says, allowing Scott to enter his quarters, and going with him back out to the balcony where they can talk without fear of waking Liam up, “I’m already fit for duty again, they may send us out soon enough.”

Scott is still staring at him, worry etched on the features Stiles now knows so well — clones are meant to be clones, exact copies of each other, but they never really are. A scar here, a different tan there, the small ticks and gestures, and the tone of their voice, their nervous habits, they are _people_ as much as any other sentient creature in the Galaxy is. Scott is unique, and Stiles could find him in a crowd of a million clones if he had to.

“Out with it, Scott. What is it?” He prods when it’s clear that Scott won’t talk even though he looks as if the words are choking him.

“They are saying Grievous let you live because you’re helping him,” the trooper finally says, and Stiles actually laughs at that, because isn’t it ironic?

“Really? What else are they saying?” he asks, a hint of laughter in his tone, but Scott doesn’t look nearly as amused.

“Rumors, Stiles, and none of them are good,” Scott’s serious tone gets Stiles’ attention and he frowns, “Some of the things they’re saying are worrying. You should watch your back if you’ll stay in Coruscant for long.”

“What _are_ they saying, Scott?” he asks again, seriously this time, and his friend seems to be struggling with something — there’s a chain of command to obey, after all. Scott is a Clone Trooper — his first duty is to the Republic, even if the Jedi are in charge of the troops. Whatever he may have heard while helping out when his General was out of commission, it wouldn’t be correct for him to tell.

On the other hand, there are very few Jedi or politicians who would treat a clone like Stiles treats Scott, because, for him, it makes no difference where he came from, just who he is, and Scott is his _friend_ before anything else.

“Some of them are saying you’ve gone dark. Some that you’ve always _been_ dark, because, of, well, who your Master was, because of where you came from, because you were spared.”

“It’s just talk, Scott,” he tries to calm the trooper, but the soldier shakes his head firmly, staring intently at Stiles as if willing him to _get it_.

“It’s not just talk, it could harm _you_. Population all over are displeased with the Jedi, Stiles — we’ve seen it out there, on the battlefields. This attack on Coruscant made the people _in here_ start mistrusting the Jedi too, and if they need someone to pin their blame on, they’ll do it on the guy who is already under suspicion of going Dark.”

“If the Jedi cared what the population thought, we wouldn’t even be in this war at all, Scott, this is not the way we do things,” he dismisses, but his friend shakes his head, exasperated.

“I’m not talking about troops and the populace — I’m talking about the _other Jedi_ ,” he tells Stiles, and he frowns, not actually believing what he’s hearing.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that intelligence experts on my team hear things all over Coruscant, because that’s what they are _for_ , and it’s become a running rumor that there must be a reason for you to still be alive when General Grievous managed to kidnap the Chancellor and kill who knows how many people as he did it — and yet, _you_ were left alive, with your lightsaber intact. People talk, they assume things, and sometimes, when despair becomes too great a burden to bear, they start coming up with explanations, and the only one they have so far is that you were helping him — and the Jedi, Stiles, as much as I respect them, are still _people_.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to answer to that, because of all the ridiculous rumors, of all the absurd things that they might have come up with — this one is the absolutely most absurd of them all.

But when he thinks about it for a moment, and actually takes into account what’s happened since he woke up, it makes a strange sort of sense.

Mordred being there when he woke up should have been his first clue that something wasn’t right, of course — the Master is way too important these days to keep vigil over a fallen Jedi just out of concern. He had been there to learn what had really happened in the bunker, since the security footage was gone.

He wants to laugh, or to cry, he isn’t really sure anymore. He just knows he cannot let the despair take him over, or he’ll fall and never get back up — he has allowed himself way too long in this mindset, let his emotions from the confirmation of Alis-Sen’s and Eri-Ka’s deaths hit him too hard, had let his certainty that Morgana had been talking about General Hale when she told him he’d save him control his mind and his thoughts and this… this _isn’t_ who he is, it never has been. He is a Jedi Master — he needs to set an example for his padawan, and he needs to keep to the Code of his Order. Whatever they may think of him, whatever they might suspect he’s been doing, he _knows_ where his path lies, and he _knows_ what his mission is — to keep the peace, no matter the cost; to uphold the teachings of the Jedi Order, to create order from chaos, and not to wallow in it.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, willing all the darkness and fear and sadness to bleed from him, and it actually _feels_ like bleeding, as if every little part of him is hurting for a small moment as his wounds close one by one, because he _has_ no wounds, all he has, all he _is_ , is the Force surrounding him and Liam and Scott and everyone and everything in the Temple.

Looking back on his day, he sees how out of line he had been with Master Mordred, plagued by his own burdens, and Stiles adding one more on him as if any of this is the man’s fault. He regrets all he said, and he vows to apologize the very next time he sees him. He lets it go – his need to make things right, this sense of urgency to get things _finished_ : the Force knows what it does, and it guides the ones who allow themselves to be guided by it, and that is all he has to do — _he_ is an instrument of the Force, not the other way around.

No matter what they are saying in the Temple or the streets, he is no Sith, no Dark Jedi, he won’t become one of the Lost — he is a Jedi Master, and he will start acting like one.

“It’s not my place to worry about what people think or don’t think, even if some of those people are Jedi,” he finally says, opening his eyes again, and turning his head to look at Scott with a small smile on his lips — he has finally found his peace again, even if his anchor isn’t quite what it should be. The knowledge that he has someone to teach, the idea that the Council might see him as unfit to train Liam should he let this desire to save Grievous consume him is what brings him back, and from there he manages to find himself again, to find his place in the Force through his padawan and all they mean for each other, “My place is to obey the Council, in whatever they may decide, and if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll handle it as the Force wills it.”

Scott keeps staring at him for a moment, incredulity all over his face, before shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

“I’ve been born and bred and programmed, and yet our whole code of conduct pales in comparison to your faith in your Order.”

Stiles smiles at him but doesn’t say anything else, and Scott says his goodbyes, telling him he’ll wait for their orders.

When his friend leaves, Stiles lets out a breath, closing his eyes, reflecting that their faith, they blind faith in the Order, comes from the fact that the Order _is_ everything — they aren’t supposed to have family, or friends, or form attachments or any other sort of bond outside their Order, and then, if as Jedi, they don’t have faith in their Order, in its ability to do as the Force wills them, what else do they have?

He settles down, closes his eyes, and decides to meditate until the Council calls him, as they are sure to do soon enough.

He needs some more clarity before facing Coruscant and all of its darkness again.

**X**

Just as he had thought, his beacon calls him to the council rooms just as the day starts in Coruscant — Liam is the one to answer to the call and then takes him out of his meditation state: his padawan still looks unsure, waiting for his Master to give him clues on how to act, on what to do, and he wonders, for a fleeting moment, if he had ever been like that with Deaton, if he’s hindering Liam in any way with his protection of him.

“The Council is waiting for you, Master,” the boy tells him, and Stiles breathes in and out, deeply, purposefully, because he knows this is a trial as much as the battle on Haruun Kal had been. They mistrust him, they’re afraid they’ve placed their trust in the wrong person again, and he has a moment of weakness when he thinks that for a Council made up by Peace Keepers, they certainly distrust a very great many people.

Shaking his head, he gets up, and smiles briefly at Liam, stretching as he does so.

“Better not keep them waiting, then,” he says, going to his room to freshen up and change.

Once they’re out of their quarters, maintaining his peace and calm is that much harder — Coruscant, as both he and Mordred had put it the day before, is _drenched_ in Darkness, _drowning_ in it, and it’s only his inner peace that allows him to get to the Council meeting room with his face calm and stance contained.

He can’t show weakness, he can’t show doubt, or they’ll believe whatever rumors they’ve been concocting as he slept — if they were anywhere else, he’d trust the Council’s better judgment, but now, in Coruscant proper, he can’t allow that.

It’s a strange balance he seems to have found, in which he can both put his fate in the hands of the Council and yet be wary of them without losing his faith that they are doing the best they can.

He can only hope it’ll last.

When they get to the Council chambers, he turns around to stare at Liam for a moment.

“Wait for me here. I’ll be out as soon as they’re done with debriefing me, and then, hopefully, we’ll have a new mission, and be away from Coruscant.”

His padawan nods, putting on the brave facade he’s been favoring since Stiles had woken up on the Healing Ward.

He gathers himself again, finds his center, finds the Force within him, and enters the chambers — the same place where he had been made a Knight, where he had received his Mastery, where they had told him he’d train Liam.

In there, the twelve Masters of the Council sit in apparent calm and peace, some physically present, some nothing but a holoimage, but one has only to look a little closer to see it’s nothing but a well-learned behavior, practice from years of being in this place, making these decisions through arguing and discussing when once they had been made by contemplating the will of the Force.

“Welcome, Master Stiles. We are glad to know you’ve recovered fully from your ordeal.”

“Thank you, Master Kilgharrah,” he inclines his head at the oldest master present, his leathery wings folded around him as he sits, face wrinkled and graying.

“We would like to know what really happened in the bunker, Master Stiles,” Master Deaton says, then, voice sharp, and Stiles turns to stare at the man in mild surprise — the change the man has gone through in just five days is astonishing, seeming to have been taken over by anger, wearing it so clearly on his face, “Even with what the Chancellor and Senator Uther have told us, they were more concerned with surviving than paying close attention to the deeds of the monster fighting you, and then sparing your life.”

“I’m not sure how much I can tell you, masters,” Stiles starts, head held high, trying not to let himself be intimidated by the mistrust coming off in waves from the other Jedi present, “We did as we were ordered, and we made our last stand in the bunker — when General Grievous came in, he did so with the codes to the doors, and not by force. It took us all by surprise, and Eri-Ka was the first one to react — one of the MagnaGuards impaled her with its electrostaff,” he pauses, taking a deep breath, not allowing the memories of his friends to overwhelm him, “Alis-Sen and I did our best, but there were just too many of them, too resistant for us to have any chance of destroying all three MagnaGuards and the General at once. I engaged Grievous in combat in an attempt to allow Alis-Sen to distract the MagnaGuards and give the Chancellor and Senator Aredian a chance to escape, but he gained on me, and went in for the kill — for some reason, he hesitated. Alis-Sen had fallen beside me, and that is when he hit me in the head with the hilt of my lightsaber. From then on, I cannot tell you what happened.”

Twelve mistrustful gazes are on him, and he has nothing but the truth to help him here.

“And you claim you have no idea why Grievous would let you live?” Master Kilgharrah asks him, his yellowish gaze fixed on Stiles, as if trying to catch him in a lie, but he just shakes his head.

“I don’t presume to know what goes on in the mind of a cyborg, Master. I do know he hesitated, I do know he didn’t take my weapon as he seems to do after a duel, but no, I cannot say why he would allow me to live.”

“These are dark times, Stiles,” Master Deaton tells him, the Master’s look still mistrustful, but Stiles does not allow that to bother him — out of all the Jedi in this room, Deaton is the one with the more reason to mistrust his former padawan, if only for his own failings, “We cannot afford to just let coincidences such as this lie.”

He inclines his head, acknowledging the man’s point.

“I understand that, Master, and I do wish I could offer more than I have, but I don’t know that I can,” he pauses, trying to sense the right path to whatever he has to accomplish — if saving General Hale is his destiny, then it’ll come to pass, no matter what he does. He has no reason to try and rush it, he has already done enough of that with Mordred the day before, “I do know I’m grateful for whatever reason he had for letting me live. Maybe even if he thought he might have someone indebted to him in the Temple should he need to come back — these aren’t easy times, as you said yourselves, and I am not blind to my origins, or to the doubts you may have about my allegiances, and I do know many would see that as a weakness, possibly a way for me to stray from my path. I am also not deaf to the rumors around the Temple, and I came in here knowing fully well that you are trying me here as much as I was tried in battle for my Knighthood,” he looks around at all of them, his head held high and voice calm, but firm — he has nothing to fear for as long as the Force is with him, “The only thing I have to say is that I am a Jedi, first and foremost — it’s what I have striven to be my whole life, it’s what I try to partake onto my own padawan, as much as Master Deaton tried to teach _me_. And as a Jedi I stand before you to wait for the Force to decide what should be done with me, no matter what it dictates. I’m a servant of the Light, and you represent its council — I can’t tell you anymore than I have already told you about Grievous’s motivations, and I know deep within me that I am not guilty of anything, so I won’t try and defend myself — I await your judgment, for I believe that through it, the will of the Force will show, and guide me to my path.”

He stops speaking and stays still, eyes on Deaton at that moment, knowing that the man may be the one to more openly show him distrust, but that, deep down, the one he distrusts the most is himself — he fears more what he might have done to Stiles than what Stiles may have actually become.

It’s Taliesin who speaks, the one of the rare Seers of the Temple — the Voss male is well in his years, his yellow markings on his pale blue face already fading into gray. His voice, however, is firm when he speaks out, and the other Jedi turn to stare at him.

“You have shown more wisdom than, I believe, we have at this moment, Master Stiles. Young as you are, you do well to remind us that our purpose is only to serve the Light and the Force — not to hunt down dissidents or bring suspicion on our own,” he stops, as if waiting for anyone else to contradict him. When no one does, he keeps on going, “The reason why the cyborg General let you live will still remain a doubt we’d like an answer to, but we are just as grateful as you are that he chose to spare your life.”

Stiles merely inclines his head at that, waiting. It’s not his place to speak now, he knows, but he can’t help but feel that being away from Coruscant has given him an advantage in this moment. Away from the heavy atmosphere of the Temple, he still sees the Light when he looks within himself — he is not so sure about how much the Darkness is actually clouding the other Masters’ judgment, and he is glad that at least one of them seems to recognize that.

He waits as the Masters seem to come to a silent consensus to let this matter go for now.

“We do have an assignment if you’re fully recovered, Stiles,” Deaton tells him, and Stiles turns his head to look at him, his hands still tucked into his sleeves as is custom for the Jedi.

“I am, Master. I’ll gladly take the assignment if that’s what you wish.”

“The 501st Legion has secured Felucia as a Republic planet once more, but we seem to be having trouble, seeing as Deuc’a Lion, the president of the Commerce Guild, has taken one of our Knights and his padawan as hostages. We may need an actual Jedi on site to deal with this threat, and recover our comrades alive, if at all possible.”

“Who has he taken?”

“Jedi Knight Da’n’yy and his padawan, Ma’som,” Kilgharrah answers him, and Stiles frowns, trying to remember them — he has some vague recollection of Da’n’yy. The Anzat Jedi Knight had worked with Alis-Sen a few times before the war, and most of Stiles’s memories of him are of the man as a technician at the Temple, not as a warrior.

Everyone in the Temple is a warrior nowadays, or so it seems.

He had been tall, with very dark hair and the grayish pale skin that species carried, already a man grown when Stiles had been but a child, but the long lifespan of his kind would make him look about Stiles’s age now. Of his padawan, however, Stiles has no memory to speak of, but maybe Liam would know him.

“Your orders are to rescue our Knight and his padawan, and take in the President of the Commerce Guild — alive, if at all possible. He could have important information regarding the whereabouts of General Grievous,” Master Kilgharrah tells him, eyes fixed on him the whole time, as if trying to catch him doing something he shouldn’t — like trying to get Grievous to be saved, instead of killed, he supposes.

He inclines his head, accepting his duties.

“May I request ARC Scott as the lead trooper on this mission?” he repeats the request he’s made dozens of times before, ever since he had lead the assault on Pelek Baw.

“I am sure he is already waiting for your orders, Master Stiles,” Master Taliesin tells him with a kind smile, and Stiles smiles back at him, glad that he won’t have to try and convince them to work with Scott — he feels more at ease knowing the lead ARC in his mission is someone he knows and trusts implicitly.

“You may depart as soon as you’re ready,” Deaton tells him, and Stiles turns to look at the man, wishing to say something, anything, to dissipate his anger, to make him let go of his suspicion, but he knows there’s nothing he could possibly do that would make that happen — not when Coruscant is so completely in the dark.

“May the Force be with you, Master Stiles,” Kilgharrah tells him, and he inclines his head, bowing just the smallest bit.

“And with you, Masters,” he tells them, before turning to leave.

He can’t wait to be as far away from all this darkness as he can get.


	10. Grievous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is on Mordred's PoV - if, by any chance, you've been following both mine and Diana's story, there are spoilers ahead? Not that we changed all that much, but Mordred is here, so.
> 
> Also, poor Derek. :/ (which could have been an alternate name for this story).

Mordred is perfectly aware that he is walking, willingly, into a trap.

The Council called him the very next morning after his conversation with Stiles, and later Morgana, to tell him the troopers had found Grievous’s whereabouts, and it is clear to anyone that it’s a trap.

He is, of course, honored that the Council entrusted him with such a delicate mission, but at the same time, he would give almost anything not to go — or, at the very least, to be able to take Merlin with him. His mind is heavy with Stiles’s pleas and Morgana’s words — while she hadn’t outright told him he _must_ save Grievous, or that the cyborg _is_ , indeed, the man he knew as General Hale, she said enough to make him wonder whether he knows what he’s doing at all in this mission. To make matters worse, when he had gone looking for Stiles after talking to the Council, he was informed that the man had already been dispatched to a mission on Felucia earlier that day with his padawan, to rescue Jedi Knight Da’n’yy and his padawan Ma-Som.

He wouldn’t have a chance to tell him he had talked to Morgana, he wouldn’t be able to ease his mind, even if just a little, that he would end this war, and that, according to the Seer, its end didn’t necessarily meant Grievous’s death — even if that alone could be interpreted in many ways, most of which Mordred isn’t keen on contemplating, for they imply that even if Grievous dies, the war will continue on, just as Stiles fears.

Just as he fears too.

After his meeting with the Council, he goes back to his quarters to get ready, heart heavy when he says his goodbyes to Merlin, who looks as if he might try and stowaway in his ship, despite his orders. These are difficult times, with every decision getting harder than the last — it’s as if they’re all threads connecting a design none of them can understand yet, and Mordred fears that when they do, it’ll be too late.

He is ready for boarding when he notices Master Deaton steadily watching him, in a pose that, years ago, even in his last visit to Coruscant, would seem calm, but now just looks contained, his rage just a breath away from escaping. He sends Commander Cody in, and waits as the Jedi walks towards him, his gaze going to the vanishing form of Merlin in the corridors above, before approaching Mordred, arms tucked in the sleeves of his robes, posture stiff.

“You are aware that this could be a trap,” the other Master tells him with no preamble, and Mordred can only nod, as he had been thinking about that himself, “You are also aware that, despite the fact that some Council members have cleared him for duty, there is still doubt on the matter of Master Stiles’s encounter with General Grievous.”

Mordred stares at the Korun Master for a long moment before speaking, conflicted over how he should respond.

“I thought the Council had talked to Stiles directly about this,” he ends up saying, and Deaton inclines his head in assertion, but doesn’t look less suspicious in his agreement.

“We did. And as I said, the Council has cleared him. Some of us, however, would still like to understand what really happened. If Stiles told you anything…” he trails off, expecting Mordred to pick up his cue, but he doesn’t, because he cannot see if this is Master Deaton talking, or just the darkness around them making the man distrust his own former padawan.

Of course, given his history, Mordred understands his doubts. So far, all of Deaton’s padawans have strayed from the Light, and yet, Mordred can’t bring himself to even consider that as a possibility — not for Stiles. As unreasonable as he had been the night before, he is certain the man — and he can’t quite get his head around the fact that Stiles is a full Master Jedi, with a padawan of his own, a General in the battlefield — would never have ill will towards the Light.

As Stiles himself had said, he is a servant of the Force, and Mordred has an inkling he has much more contact with its will at this moment than Deaton seems to possess, in his never ending doubts and conflicts.

“Stiles doesn’t seem to have told me anything he didn’t tell the Council. He was upset over the deaths of his two closest friends, he was in pain and hurting, but I am certain he has managed to overcome this obstacle on his path, if he has already been sent on a rescue mission.”

Deaton scoffs quietly at that.

“You and I both know that Stiles wouldn’t have been dispatched so soon if we didn’t have our own plans in motion here in Coruscant, and if we weren’t already stretched as thin as possible — no one else could carry out the rescue mission but him.”

“Then I don’t know what else to tell you, Master Deaton.”

The man eyes him silently for a moment, before tilting his head to the side, his voice quiet.

“It has been mentioned you went to see Master Morgana after your visit to Stiles last night.”

Mordred nods once — it is no secret he visited her, and their conversation is no secret either, but he is sure Deaton would read more into it than necessary, and for that alone he decides to keep its contents to himself.

“Are the two visits at all connected?” the man pushes, and Mordred nods again.

“In a manner of speaking, they are. Morgana was once as invested in Stiles’s future in the Order as I was, and we all worry about what happens to him. I went by to inform her of his recovery, which, of course, she already knew about. We talked on the matter of his survival of Grievous’s attack, but she had no light to shed on the matter, no more than I or Stiles himself have to offer.”

His half answer seems to be enough for the man — he still looks suspicious, but almost as if he’s ready to let it go.

“There seems to be too many coincidences in this war in the past few days, too many connecting links with no apparent reason — be careful, Mordred. This trap you’re walking into may run deeper than you might think.”

It irks Mordred that Deaton is so determined not to trust his former padawan that even to the end he is trying to warn Mordred against him, but he says nothing more on it — he doubts anything would convince Deaton of Stiles’s complete honesty on this matter, probably sensing that something is not being told, but never even being able to consider that whatever is being hidden is there by the design of the Force, and not because of his supposed betrayal.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Master Deaton. May the Force be with you,” he tells the man.

“And with you.”

He turns around, and boards his ship, more ready to get away from Coruscant now than he had thought possible just a few minutes before. He hopes the trip to Utapau will be enough for him to find his center again, after his time in Coruscant.

**X**

As soon as he arrives in Utapau, he’s met by the Pau’ans’ leader, who tells him Grievous is, indeed, on the planet. The male looks frightened, but determined to do the right thing — a rarity these days, when half the Galaxy mistrusts the Jedi, and the other half wishes they could understand what is actually going on.

A part of him is relieved, knowing the end might as well be at his fingertips, but another part, the more reasonable part, the part that thinks this is too easy, has a bad feeling about the whole thing.

A trap, a good Jedi trap, indeed.

He turns his ship around, pretends to leave, and lands it on a remote landing pad, getting out, and seeking the command center where Grievous is sure to be at — as dangerous as the territory in Utapau is, it also makes for an easy enough hunt, seeing as there aren’t many places where the General could be biding his time.

He hides, high up on a beam near the ceiling, when he finds him.

General Grievous has four MagnaGuards with him, plus scores and scores of battle droids and super battle droids hanging not far from him, ready to attack at any time he orders them to — it would be daunting, had Mordred not been more focused on watching the cyborg down in the middle of the commanding unit, his dark cloak trailing behind him.

He watches, cataloging all details which could have made Stiles think the monster underneath is Stiles’s childhood savior, the man Mordred had so admired for such a long time as the one good soldier they’d always have. It’s not the first time he’s seen the cyborg, of course, but it is the first one in which he truly tries to seek in him anything that could allow for compassion, for pity, for redemption. Anything that would make it acceptable for Mordred to save him.

The General’s eyes are the deep red he’s infamous for, seeming to be stuck on a permanent glare at all times, unlike the electric blue they had once been. He is taller than Mordred remembers Derek Hale being, but then again, he is covered head to toe in armor — take that away, and it might well be that the man is hidden underneath. The way he walks, however, even though with heavier steps, is the same — that raw determination to get his duty done, to do what he has to, no questions asked. There _is_ something about the man that is incredibly familiar, and yet he can’t bring himself to think of a way to let him live on as he is now.

For a moment, he doesn’t  know how to act, is at a loss of what he should accomplish here, in agony over what Stiles asked him to do and what the Council expects of him — of him, of Merlin, of Stiles himself, and as loath as he is to admit it, all those expectations feel _wrong_ to him. The Council isn’t right in what they are doing, but who can he serve, what is his purpose if he doesn’t trust them? He has lost count of how many times he’s asked himself that very question, and his eyes keep tracing Grievous’s impatient movements below as he considers the best course of action.

How disappointed in him would Stiles be if he didn’t even _try_? How many problems would he have to face within the Council should he allow Grievous to live? Should he trust them? Follow their orders blindly as a good Jedi should?

_‘My path is to obey the will of the Force. Maybe being a Jedi is part of it, but so is saving him.’_

Stiles’s words come back to him, and he closes his eyes, allowing himself to find his center in the Force, to let it flow through him beyond being a Jedi, or a human. He is an instrument of the Force, and he will act like it to his very last breath, no matter the consequences, because _that_ is what he should be. _That_ is what he was taught to do by his own Master — to follow the Force and obey its will.

Opening his eyes and watching Grievous take another round of the space he’s in, he knows what to do.

He’s meant to save _Derek Hale_.

That doesn’t mean General Grievous should be allowed to live.

He jumps off the beam, falling gracefully just a few feet away from the MagnaGuards, who turn around in unison to face him, but do not attack. Grievous turns, then, his armored face giving nothing away as he stalks towards Mordred fearlessly, passing through his bodyguards as if they aren’t there for his protection.

“General Grievous, you’re under arrest,” he tells the bio-droid, whose shoulders shake a bit, as if he’s laughing — Mordred isn’t sure he _can_ laugh, though.

“Are you giving me a chance to surrender, Jedi? Because I assure you, I will not extent you the same courtesy.”

Mordred takes his lightsaber from his belt and lights it up, calm as he can be as Grievous approaches him.

“I’m not here to kill you, General — I’m here to take you in. Surrender, and this will all be easier for you.”

“I don’t think I will,” the cyborg says, voice flat as he shrugs the cape falling on his left arm to his back, leaving both of his armor covered arms free, “See, you may not be here to kill me, but you _will_ die here, Jedi, just as those other two died back in Coruscant.”

“It could have been three, Grievous, and yet it wasn’t. Surrender now, and you may yet understand _why_ you let Stiles live.”

That finally seems to make the cyborg’s calm disappear. His eyes flash in bright red once, before he turns his back on Mordred entirely and stalks back behind his guards.

“Kill him,” he says, almost fastidiously, and Mordred starts worrying about the four MagnaGuards turning to face him as one — and the scores and scores of droids hanging from the ceiling, all seeming to have woken up at once, beady dead eyes focused on him.

Commander Cody, however, true to his word, comes in to his rescue just in time, with scores of troopers honing in on his position and coming to face the battalions of droids, leaving him and Grievous — and the four MagnaGuards — to their own battle.

He could swear the cyborg snorts when he sees the clone troopers, and seems to change his mind, turning back and shrugging his cape again, arms crossing in front of his chest as he draws out two lightsabers. Mordred feels his blood boiling for a second, before he can find his peace again — lightsabers taken from fallen Jedi, from the beings Derek Hale had no business in destroying, even if this is not really Derek Hale.

“You have no right to use those weapons,” he tells the man, his voice calm as they circle around each other, troopers and battle droids falling all around them, but they aren’t worried — there are only the two of them now.

“Your fellow Jedi protecting the Chancellor in Coruscant made no complaint when I took them,” the cyborg replies and runs towards him, both lightsabers circling in front of him like death propellers, yellow and orange lights mixing in his direction, but Mordred veers to his right, weapon hitting the closest lightsaber in Grievous’s hand, making him lose his steady pace, and back up a little.

After that, Mordred attacks in earnest.

He doesn’t aim for a kill, and not only because Stiles asked him not to, or because Morgana implied he would save the man this cyborg had once been, but because he wouldn’t be able to, not yet — Grievous has been well trained, most likely by Count Peter himself, on top of having been a warrior in his former life as well. The General attacks him again, using his heavier form to his advantage, but Mordred parries the attack and forces him behind with the help of the Force, making the cyborg stagger. He stops, just a few steps away, both lightsabers twirling at his sides as he seems to try and decide what to do, red eyes narrowed in concentration and malice and rage — these are the only things he seems to know how to feel, and Mordred finally understands he _will_ save Derek Hale, after all, even if he kills this being in front of him, because no one deserves to live like this — a shell of what he had been, encased in durasteel and armoplast, not really a Kaleesh anymore, not really a _person_.

Anyone, _anyone_ , would rather be dead than continue on living like this husk of a person, with no feelings, no happiness, drowning in a pit of hatred and anger.

“How disappointed do you think Stiles would be if he saw you now?” Mordred asks him, voice low and curious, because he knows, he just _knows_ , Hale will remember. He already had, in the battle that caused Alis-Sen’s and Eri-Ka’s death. He will remember the child he saved, the promises he made to him too, “He grew up to be one of the kindest, most loyal people I have ever met, and he remembers you — he will _always_ remember you — and yet this is what you’ve become, a killer, a droid, no better than the army you command. How sad, how _broken_ do you think he will be when he finds out you couldn’t be brave enough to break through this programming on your own, that you continued to kill mindlessly?”

The General runs to him again, two weapons raining strikes against Mordred in a fit of rage greater than Mordred ever remembers seeing — he contains with it, though, veers to his sides, turns and leaps like his former padawan is so fond of doing, letting the cyborg rain his rage against him, only ever defending himself, because he _knows_ this is what he has to do.

He is one with the Force, and the Force is _in him_. Grievous’s armor is more than his protection, his impermeability against his enemies: it is the source of his malice, of his hatred — it is what it’s stopping Derek Hale from healing fully, from being the man he had once been, good and fair and just and brave.

Mordred finally leaps out of the cyborg’s path, jumping over battle droid pieces and on a cargo unit, Grievous following him not a second later, seeming intent on advancing on him again to continue his attack.

“Who do you think the Council will send after you next, if you manage to defeat me? Stiles is next in line — brave and fearless and duty-bound to the Jedi Order. Will you spare him again, then? Run from him forever? What will you do, General, when the child you saved is the one hunting you down?”

Grievous launches himself at Mordred, then, a scream of rage in his lips, and Mordred finally attacks him back, his lightsaber being guided by the Force itself, moving faster than it ever had — and he is not the only one to realize that finally, for the first time in this fight, he seems to have the upper hand.

He manages to cut one of the lightsabers in half while still in the General’s hand, sparks flying as his weapon grazes the man’s armor, and he readies himself for another attack, aiming at the bio-droid’s chest, where his central wiring is.

Grievous jumps off the container at the last second, and runs — cape trailing behind him, as he shouts a command at the MagnaGuards still awaiting orders underneath them.

Grievous runs.

This is quite possibly the one thing that makes Mordred’s heart break into a million pieces — he has to save him — even if it kills the General, even if he does die in the end of the battle he’ll _make sure_ is coming, because he just cannot allow this travesty to continue for any longer than it has.

Grievous runs.

The Kaleesh who went alone into a Yam’rii ship to rescue children, not caring how many enemies he had to face, the one who’s suffered for his planet, who fought every battle, who kept them safe before being turned into the monster he is today — he _runs_ , and that makes Mordred pity him more than anything.

They did something to him. General Hale wouldn’t run and hide behind scores of droids and droidekas, behind his MagnaGuards and their electrostaffs — he would have faced Mordred head on till the very end, fought him like the leader he once was not caring about survival, only about doing his duty, about keeping his honor as a warrior intact.

He owes it to this man to bring him back, even if he dies at the attempt — even if both of them do. Worst things than death can happen to anyone, as they have clearly happened onto Hale, and he is going to bring him back.

He closes his eyes, letting the Force run through him — he is no longer Mordred, Jedi Master, or Merlin’s friend, or an oath breaker to General Hale: he is the Force, and he lets it use him as it will. He concentrates for a second, and the cables holding the container above him start to shake and tremble over him — he jumps off the container just as it lands on all four MagnaGuards who were quickly advancing onto him, and he grabs the electrostaff of one of them as it falls down, running after Grievous, his black cape trailing behind him.

The cyborg leaps up on the railings on the ceiling and runs over it, Mordred following as fast as he can, but he has an idea where the bio-droid wants to go — to the nearest landing pad, where, Mordred is sure, there’s an escape module waiting for him.

The cyborg makes it to a few feet from his ship when Mordred finally gains on him, and the Jedi takes an impulse, leaping over the cyborg and landing in front of him just as Grievous is trying to get into the ship — certainly the General would try and escape in it if Mordred hadn’t been faster and caught up to him.

The cyborg finally stops and stares at Mordred, from the tip of the electrostaff cackling in his hand to his calm countenance, and he seems to come to a decision, spreading his cape wide and pulling two lightsabers from it again as he speaks.

“It seems there’s no other way, then, Jedi — you will die here,” he tells Mordred, voice distorted and breathing mechanical as he speaks, but deep down, in the resonance of his voice, in the softness of his speech, now that he knows what he’s looking for, he can hear Derek Hale’s surprisingly soft voice from beneath all the armoplast and durasteel.

“I admired you,” Mordred starts, circling the General, who shows no emotion when hearing Mordred speak, “I thought you were a hero. How could you fall so low, General Hale?”

The cyborg’s red eyes straighten at that, and he lights up his two weapons, orange and green, his mechanical joints allowing him to twirl them in a much faster speed than a human or a Kaleesh should be able to.

“Not as low as you will fall, Jedi.”

Mordred snorts at that answer, head to the side as he considers the being in front of him, leaping out of the way of the weapons coming towards him as Grievous attacks — he now understands the cyborg’s technique and that makes it easier for him to stay away from his strikes, makes it easier for him to defend himself against it — and makes it easier for the Force to guide him into what he has to do to save him.

He uses the electrostaff to fend off the brunt force of the first lightsaber hitting him, but has to leap out of the way when the second one comes almost at once at his torso — jumping behind him, he gets away again, his back to the precipice at the edge of the landing pad, and he can almost see Grievous’s smirk behind his face armor, certain that all he’ll have to do is push him off it — but this is not just a battle against _Mordred_ , he’s battling the Force itself and he doesn’t know it.

With every attack the cyborg delivers, Mordred is forced to change tactics, letting the Force flow through him, guide him in whatever way it will — he can’t stop to consider if his strike will hit him with too much force and kill him, he can’t let himself think about the fact that he may send him careening out of the landing pad. What has to happen will happen, and he has no control over it — he lets go of control, and just acts as he must, because that is his purpose.

Grievous’s attacks become more violent, and even more reckless — he is clearly not used to losing, or to taking this much time to win a battle, but he is no Jedi, too far gone into his rage and whatever madness the Sith had put into him to be able to sense his way into battle as he had once done.

The General finally manages to strike him, making him stumble once, but that gives Mordred an opening, and he faints a dive towards Grievous, who leans out of the way at the same time Mordred pulls him in, snagging the tip of his cape with his electrostaff, bringing him closer than before.

“What would Stiles say if he saw you now?” he asks again, and sees Grievous’s eyes widen for just the fraction of a second, but it’s all the opening he needs — he pulls the weapon form the cape, and aims for the armor over the cyborg’s chest, because he _knows_ this is what he has to do. The force of his strike makes it crack once, and Grievous tries to stumble away and out of Mordred’s grip, but he can’t, because the Jedi doesn’t allow him time enough to recover before he’s stabbing at the armor again, seeing a crack.

He pushes Grievous away from him with the help of the Force, and the cyborg falls on his back just a few steps away, a deafening noise on the ground with the weight of his armor. Leaping again, Mordred falls by his side, kicking the two lightsabers away from him, and then kneeling down — on his red eyes, Mordred can see confusion, and the cyborg looks at his own chest in awe and fear, as if he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing.

 

Artwork by [Luna](http://lunasthetic.tumblr.com/)

The Jedi doesn’t think on it, however, he _cannot_ , for this is not his place. Simply knowing he has to, Mordred opens the armor with his bare hands, just the smallest fraction, and reaches in, pulling out wiring and circuitry, using all his strength and the help from the Force to do so — he ignores the screams, the swearing, the sounds of pain, because he _has_ to do this — to free the cyborg’s chest of whatever it is it’s inside. He pulls with all his strength, the Force in his every struggle, and can sense the electricity running through him too as Grievous screams out in rage and suffering.

With one last pull, he sees all the wiring in the cyborg’s chest piece has been destroyed, disconnected, and he breathes in relief. He stands up, hands now full of wires, blood and pieces of skin, and stares at the being on the ground by his feet — blood pouring out of him, armor cracked hopefully beyond repair, and he isn’t sure if General Grievous will make it, if he’ll survive — the screams of pain becoming too loud before he seems to collapse on himself, the red in his eyes seeming to fade before he closes them completely and doesn’t move anymore.

Mordred doesn’t go near him to check, to be sure — it’s not his place. His mission here is done and over with.

He leaves, leaving the pieces of Grievous on the floor, knowing the pain he’s caused but also that he did the right thing.

He kept his promise to Stiles, he kept to the Code, and he did what the Force willed him to.

As a Jedi, as a person, he cannot hope for any more than this.

**X**

Pain.

Oh, he knows pain — pain has been his constant companion for as long as he can remember, but _that_ , that very thing, is his problem right now, because he doesn’t.

He doesn’t remember why he’s on the floor, bleeding out, encased in metal and frying wires all over him — he doesn’t remember what took him to this place, or who hurt him.

And at the same time, he _does_.

 _He_ did it, he brought this onto himself, but that cannot be right, because he wouldn’t, he would _never_.

He doesn’t know what is happening, and this feeling he has right now, this exhausting feeling of so much pain he can’t bear to be alive, this desperation for release of any kind, this is his last clear memory — he remembers Kalee, he remembers his accident, he remembers wishing to die.

He turns, chest hitting the floor of a landing pad, and grunts in pain as his skin is torn apart a little more by the scraps of metal and dirt on the floor, smearing blood everywhere he reaches.

He needs to go somewhere safe so he can understand what is happening to him — he needs to go _home_.

Dragging himself across the floor with excruciatingly slow speed, he reaches the ship — a Z-95 Headhunter.

He _knows_ this ship. This, he knows. He knows this ship, and he knows _home._

Activating the escape module, he can barely keep his eyes open for long enough to type in his destination, before collapsing on the chair, his eyes shut and aching and _burning_.

Maybe this time it will end.

It’s all he can ask for if any of these memories he keeps trying to not remember are true.

For it to end.


	11. War's End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in this chapter, but I was at ComicCon Experience in Brazil, and it was AWESOME.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the chapter!

 

Deaton isn’t even sure why he’s behaving as he is, and that isn’t even the least comforting thought he’s had in a while.

He _knows_ Stiles — knows him well, fought alongside him, protected him when he could, and watched over him when he couldn’t. He _knows_ his former padawan, and yet he can’t help it: he mistrusts everything and everyone. He can’t stand the thought of losing another one of his students to the Dark Side, and yet he knows that is precisely its influence that is driving him into mistrust and anger, and that is exactly what makes him consider the possibility that it is doing the same to Stiles. It’s a vicious circle he doesn’t know how to break.

He has very little hope left — what he has in abundance now is anger and righteousness, and while Deaton is perfectly aware that none will serve him well in such troubled times, he cannot let them go. He can’t find peace.

Receiving Stiles’s report on the success of his rescue mission, all he can do is put what little hope he does have left into the belief that Stiles will turn out to be a better Jedi than his Master is — it’s a conundrum he’s given up hope of understanding: he hopes, and yet he doesn’t trust.

His troubling thoughts are interrupted by Merlin’s arrival — hurried, frazzled, out of sorts as he always seems to be lately, as he shouldn’t — _wouldn’t_ — be if his first loyalty was truly to the Jedi Order and the Light.

“Merlin,” he greets with a small incline of his head, and the other Jedi bows ever so slightly, eyes in a fury.

“Master Deaton, I have grave news, troubling ones, beyond anything we could have predicted.”

“What do you mean, Merlin?” he asks the Knight, already running out of patience — what little he has these days is reserved for the Council. He has none for the man for whom he has never had much to begin with.

“It’s the Chancellor,” he pauses, as if fighting an internal struggle for what to do, how to go on, “He…” he stops again, hands trembling on the hilt of the lightsaber on his belt.

“What is it, Merlin?” Deaton prompts when the other man seems to hesitate again.

“He’s with the Sith, Master,” he rushes out all in one breath, as if he can’t take the time to think on it, or he won’t be brave enough to finish it, “He’s with the Sith, I’m sure of it.”

Deaton’s mind seems to freeze for a second before going forth — as if his whole world has shattered and he has but seconds to make sense of all the shards.

“This is a grave accusation, Merlin,” he says, stalling for time even as he is absolutely sure Merlin is telling the truth, because this is the one way things will make sense. It’s the one truth that accounts for all their errors in judgment, all their plans being foiled, all these years of war, with peace just one step away, but the step is never taken.

This is the one thing that would make _sense_.

If Uther is in the middle of it, if he’s in connection with the Sith, what interest would he have in giving up absolute his power, what would he gain from giving up his complete control over the Galaxy if he is the one who is in no danger from the Sith, after all? How many times had they themselves thought of it, and dismissed it because Uther _already has_ the power?

“I _know_ , Master, and I wouldn’t do this lightly. I saw him — he as much as confessed it to me just now. He… He wants me to join them, but I-”

“But you’re a Jedi,” Deaton states, not really as a declaration of trust, but as a reminder, “And you wouldn’t join the Dark Side.”

Merlin stares at him then, and for a second, just a second, Deaton regrets every time he mistrusted this boy from the day he came into the Temple. He regrets it because the Sith wouldn’t have approached him if he weren’t a liability, and he only became one because the Jedi had failed him.

He wouldn’t need to be offered another home if he had found one among them.

“I must go and confront him,” the Master says, mind already running with the possibilities — with Kilgharrah away in Kashyyyk, Mordred in Utapau, and Stiles still in Felucia, he has scarce personnel to aid him, but he must make do with the few Masters who are at the Temple.

“I’ll come with you,” Merlin’s voice is determined, desperate, and afraid, all at once, and that gives Deaton some pause — there is no denying that few can match Merlin’s skills in battle, but can he trust him?

Can he trust the man to whom a Sith Lord has offered a place by their side?

“No,” he says, voice marked with a finality that brooks no argument, “This is a matter for the Council. I’ll go and gather the others, and you will wait in the Council Chambers.”

“Master Deaton—”

“These are your orders, Merlin. Should you be right, you will have my absolute trust, but until then, you will follow your orders.”

He turns and strides away, feeling as if he made a grave mistake, but then again, that is a common feeling these days, isn’t it?

He can only hope this will be the last one he has to make.

**X**

Stiles takes a second to look around and _breathe_ — he’s not sure how long they’ll be able to do it for, anyway.

“Poison,” he repeats for the third time, and Da’n’yy merely nods, not offering any other explanations.

The Anzat still looks frazzled and weary, the drugs Deuc’a Lion had used on him to keep his powers in check were still making him drowsy.

Poison. They’ll poison the air in Felucia, killing _everything_ , and Stiles suddenly feels so tired he can’t process the actual information on a problem-solving level. Poison.

Who even considers poisoning everything as an answer to anything at all?

Felucia is one of the most beautiful places in all of the Galaxy, as far as Stiles is concerned. Everything native to the planet has that translucent shine, as if they don’t quite belong to this world — huge fungi rise as tall as any building, shadowing the humid terrain, shining in bright neon colors like something out of a dream. It’s a beautiful place, and just like anything too beautiful to be true, it’s also quite deadly.

Even being an important center for the Perlemian Trade Route, Felucia is still, mostly, covered by jungle, and the inhabitants of that world had to adapt or go away, unlike many other planets in the innermost rim where the habitat had to adapt to its population. It’s one of the things that Stiles finds fascinating about it, and it seems like his padawan shares his own admiration for it, blue eyes scanning the plants surrounding the clearing they are in, waiting for Da’n’yy to recover so they can plan their way around the poisoning of the planet surface.

Stiles wonders for a moment if Liam knows he was born here.

The Jedi discourage attachments and, sometimes, if the youngling is young enough, they wouldn’t even mention their home planet, making the youngling to be a child of the Temple, as so many of them were — Stiles and Merlin are a few of the exceptions, being a bit too old _not_ to remember their first homes — but most of the kids don’t care about that, already too engrossed in being an apprentice, in wishing to become a padawan and pass their trials, that their first home became but a forgotten thought.

Deciding not to mention anything, Stiles lets Liam admire the Felucian sky with its eight moons as he approaches Scott, in search of the ARC’s opinion on the matter — it’s probably more about tactics than brute force right now, which is good as they don’t have that many soldiers with them. This was supposed to be a rescue mission, not a saving the planet one — but now that they are here, he can’t very well turn his back onto the whole population.

“We can’t let them poison everything,” Liam says then, his voice soft and a bit worried, staring at Scott and Stiles pleadingly — as if any of them would actually leave and save their own skins instead of helping the hundreds of thousands of people who would suffer and die in case the poison actually was spread by the Separatist Forces. The boy turns to Ma’Som, looking for support in his plea, and the other kid shrugs and nods at once, clearly not comfortable in sharing more than that with his Master still a bit out of it, and one unknown Jedi Master staring at him.

Da’n’yy’s padawan unnerves Stiles a little, he has to confess. He’s a second generation human-doneer breed, much as Stiles is a third generation human-kaleesh. The kid’s vaguely insect-like features bring back memories he hasn’t thought of in over twenty years, and it makes him uneasy.

He takes a deep breath, decided to let it go — this is not who he is anymore, and he will not hold anything against a child who happens to look a little like the people who killed all of his friends when he was four years old.

“We won’t let it come to that, Liam, I promise,” Stiles reassures him, a weight lifting off his shoulders when the padawan looks a bit less insecure. Ever since Stiles woke up in the Temple after the Battle of Coruscant, Liam has been clingier than usual — and Stiles has been indulging him, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s hard, however, to try and _not_ assuage his padawan’s fears when he knows how he must have felt at the Temple: alone and abandoned, his training not completed, not knowing if his Master would make it or not. It’s irrational, because Stiles hadn’t _chosen_ to leave him, but the kid probably felt as if he had been almost abandoned, and that hit, once again, too close to home for his own comfort. Stiles knows what it’s like to be left by your Master when you still need him, for even though Deaton hadn’t died, he also hadn’t really completed Stiles’s training in full — Eri-Ka and Alis-Sen had been the ones with him for those first years as a Knight who had no idea how to deal with the responsibility, and even though he _knows_ the Temple wouldn’t allow Liam to become a Knight on his own even if Stiles did die, he can’t help but feel protective, and want to shield his student from the pain and suffering that losing him would cause.

He can only hope he isn’t hindering his learning in any way by doing this.

“I doubt they’ll be able to organize themselves too quickly after you took Deuc’a Lion out,” Da’n’yy starts, every word a struggle, but at least now he is able to speak, “His right hand, Kali, she’s more muscle than brains, it’ll take them at least a day to really put their plans in motion,” the Master stops for a few seconds, and Stiles looks at Ma’Som, who is staring at his Master as if afraid he’ll break in the next second, “She will have to head to their command center, at any rate — with their transport damaged, they’ll have to improvise, and it will take at least a few hours before they make a move there. They can’t really set the poison off without arranging some kind of transport off-world for themselves — if we plan it well, we can stop them before it ever comes to actually putting the planet in danger.”

Stiles and Scott both nod at this, and the Master Jedi is thankful for Da’n’yy, who seems to be keeping a level head even after being kept unconscious for days.

“Stealth is our best option,” Stiles states, thinking his way through it, “We can hardly match the brute force of the droids they have at their disposal with only a few dozen troopers, and going to battle will put the civilian population in danger all the same.”

“We can send a diversion force to meet them upfront,” Scott offers, brow furrowed as if he’s not fond of his plan, but his tactical mind knows it’s their best bet, “We’ll probably lose every man we send in, but it’ll give us time to head with a small group to the jungle and reach their headquarters before they can make it there.”

“But the troopers—” Ma’Som starts, but a frown form his Master gives him pause.

“They are here to defend the planet and the Republic at whatever cost, padawan. Do remember that,” the older Jedi tells his student, and the kid bows his head a bit, his cheeks darkening in shame at being scolded in front of the others, but he isn’t the only one who looks like every fiber of his being is objecting to it: Liam doesn’t like this plan, and neither does Stiles, but if Scott is offering it as an option it’s because they are probably out of anything else, “You must excuse my padawan, he isn’t used to working with the troopers,” Da’n’yy tells Stiles, and he nods.

“There’s no need for excuses, we’ve been working with them ever since I became a Knight, and I don’t like this plan any more than you do, Ma’Som,” he says the last part staring at the kid, who seems grateful, “However, if Scott thinks this is the best option, we probably don’t have anything else to go on — he wouldn’t endanger his men like this if we had any other way out.”

Stiles still takes a moment to actually think the plan through — even though Da’n’yy has been a Master since before Stiles himself  was even a padawan, this mission is still his own.

Sending the troopers to attack the nearest outpost for the Separatists where Kali is still holed up in is a risky bet — they will most likely get killed in the attempt, but they will also make a dent in their forces. He doesn’t have many troopers to begin with: this was supposed to be a rescue mission, a stealth operation, and that part had gone off without a hitch. Even though he had been afraid of what they’d find when they cornered Deuc’a Lion, Da’n’yy had been surprisingly fine, if out of commission. Taking Deuc’a Lion out hadn’t been easy, but they didn’t need any more men than the five dozen they had with them, because Deuc’a Lion had been hoping for negotiation, and not an invasion — Stiles and his team had had the element of surprise, and it had made all the difference in the outcome.

However, before he finally fell to a well-placed blaster shot from Scott, he had activated his own rescue call, and Kali had rushed to him — bringing with her thousands of battle droids and super battle droids.

Seeing them makes Stiles think of General Grievous, of Mordred and his mission, and his vain hope that the man he had known as a child could be saved in some way, but he focuses back on the mission, because he can’t allow for such thoughts to cloud his judgment — not when over a hundred men’s lives depended on his clear head and decision making abilities.

“How many do you think we should send in, and how many should we take with us?” he asks Scott, who frowns, considering for a moment.

“We should send an even number — Kali will see there’s something off with our own numbers if it’s an uneven amount. Probably get some of your cloaks and give it to at least two of the troopers, so they can stand out as one of you would: this way she’ll think we are actually making a frontal assault. We have to send them in at once, and then we can cut our way back through the jungle, and leave at least ten troopers to guard our own vehicle, or the droids might make off with it just so we can’t escape.”

“We send out a hundred, keep ten troopers with us, and ten stationed at the ship, for when we get back,” Stiles states, and Scott nods.

The Jedi Master sighs harshly, and runs his hand through his hair, not liking this at all.

He’s sending a hundred men to their deaths.

It’s as simple as that — a hundred of them right into the arms of thousands of murdering droids, just so they can stage an ambush.

“It’s a hundred lives in exchange for hundreds of _thousands_ , General,” Scott reminds him, a gentle hand on his shoulder, and just then Stiles notices how tight his fists are by his side.

“They are troopers, Master Stiles,” Da’n’yy tells him — not unkindly, but with a note of curiosity in his voice, as if he doesn’t quite understand his struggle.

“They are people, like us,” he tells the man, trying to keep his anger out of his voice, “Like the ones we’ve sworn to defend and keep the peace for.” He’s silent for a moment longer, looking down and knowing, just knowing, that Scott is right — what are a hundred troopers’ lives in exchange for a whole planet?

But even as he becomes certain that this is the best course of action, he is still considering since when is it the Jedi’s work to decide what lives are worth more, and how many deaths are an affordable amount? Who are they to decide such things?

War has twisted everything they’ve ever worked for, and the words are bitter in Stiles’s mind when he gives Scott the command to organize the troops and send them off, even as he and Ma’Som are assessing if Da’n’yy’s injuries will allow for him to work through the jungle they’ll have to cross.

As he sees the troopers raise their fists, he mouths _Find, Fix, Finish_ right along with them. He is so tired of endless death that for a second, maybe even less than a second, he wishes the Separatists would win, just so they can find peace, even if it comes at the cost of their freedom.

**X**

Melissa doesn’t have much in her life, but she’s grateful for what little she does have.

Kalee isn’t really a prosperous world, but the war that’s apparently raging through the galaxy has left them alone so far, and she does hope it will continue to do so until it ends, because Kalee has paid its due a thousand times over even before the war itself had begun.

The Kaleesh — by race or choice — are used to loss, they know it well, but that doesn’t mean they welcome it. She herself had lost a husband, and then a son. She, along with all of the main planet, had felt the loss of all their children, taken at once mercilessly, the same day they lost the Chief’s son to the Jedi, and lost the war to the Huks.

They lost their freedom — for in this world, what is freedom with no credit, no trade, no hope? — and then they lost their one good soldier, their General, to death in a far away world, taken on the promise of giving him back to them fully recovered, never to be seen again.

After that, however, Kalee knew no more loss, but no more progress. It feels as if their world is stuck in place, never to go back to a better time or move forward to an unknown future. Their visitors are few and far-between, and most of them choose to never return. They have barely enough food not to starve, and medicine is a gift the likes of which she, as a nurse, knows cost more than life itself.

  And yet, they make do — for all their misgivings and misfortunes, for all they’ve lost and suffered, being stuck in place is better than to sink to the depths of war, as so many other worlds have been doing.

Ten years is a very long time to have no progress, no change, but it’s much longer to be at war.

As their planet offers no important exports and has no money to have significant import, it’s a surprise when she notices the ship approaching erratically deep into the night, when she’s only awake because one of her patients had been screaming in pain from the bite of a feral beast he was trying to hunt earlier that day.

She frowns, staring out the hospital windows, starting to worry when the ship doesn’t seem to slow down as it approaches he landing pad, and she rushes out the doors without considering what it might be happening — that it might be an enemy ship, that she might be attacked, or killed, or injured in the crash landing for being too close —  not caring about what happens to you is one of the things that comes with having nothing to _really_ live for.

Kaleela is quiet as she runs to the landing pad, just barely able to see it from a corner as the ship does crash onto it, and she keeps running, hoping that whoever is in there will survive the fall.

The noise from the crash awakes most of the city, and she can already see lights in glassless windows, and curious people peeking through their doors, armed to the teeth even when in idle curiosity — the Kaleesh know they have no enemies now, but they never forget.

The ship’s automatic control system is already putting the small fire from the crash landing out when she reaches it, and the cockpit is open, revealing a troubling sight: a body half encased in metal and what appears to be armor is stretched onto the pilot’s seat, but the person inside it seems unconscious or maybe dead. She hesitates to touch him but, in the end, her nurse instinct is stronger than her self-preservation one, and carefully she puts a hand to one of the cracks in the armor near what appears to be a neck, and she feels a faint pulse — not dead then, just terribly damaged.

Knowing now that the being is alive, she looks up from the ship and sees Chief Stilinski and his helper, Lydia Martin, along with her fiancé Jakh’sin, getting closer to the crash. The other curious bystanders are standing a little ways away, probably too afraid to come any closer, in case this is an attack, albeit a very strange one should that be the case.

“Jakh’sin, help me get them out of the ship,” she asks, and the nikto rushes to her side, as she turns to Lydia and the Chief, “Get me a gurney, quickly.”

Lydia rushes off with two other people, as Jakh’Sin and Melissa work to get the person out — she gathers it’s a man, but she can’t be sure. Most of him is covered by a broken material she isn’t sure what it is, and something keeps making a hissing sound, like broken machinery. He’s covered in burns and blood, but she figures he is alive — she’s just not sure for how long.

They finally manage to extract him from the ship, which is clearly unsalvageable, just as one of the men who went to the hospital with Lydia is back with the gurney, and, in an effort by Jon and Jakh’Sin together, they manage to put the body on it.

Melissa takes command of the gurney at that, and they wheel it to the hospital, as she keeps monitoring his breathing, which is strangely controlled even though he’s clearly been through a battle not very long ago.

“Any idea who this is?” the Chief asks, his voice controlled but suspicious — he’s lost any and all sense of trust in strangers, that had never been big to begin with, when the Jedi took his child from him the same day his wife died.

“Someone who needs help,” she answers, giving him a hard stare as she enters the hospital, and takes the man who is now her patient to their one surgery room.

She just hopes her own abilities are enough to save him.

Once in surgery, she rushes everyone who isn’t a medical professional out of the room, which means she’s alone with the old med droids who have seen better days twenty years ago, but it’s all they have — her patient still hasn’t moved on his own or made a single sound, and by the amount of injuries he’s clearly sustained, this is not a good sign.

She takes a moment to look at him, and realizes the case in which his body is in has to be removed — the only problem is that it seems to be infused in his body, a _part_ of this being instead of armor around him. Carefully looking through the analysis from the droids, she notices that the armor is, indeed, connected to the man underneath — or, at least, it used to be.

Whatever kept armor and body in symbiosis seems to be gone, most likely by a fire that left the scorch marks behind on the skin of the man’s chest and appears to have broken the circuitry on the armor.

Staring for a few more seconds, she administers some painkillers on him before leaving the room altogether, going to the waiting room, where Lydia, Jahk-Sin and Chief Stilinski are waiting.

“I have good news and bad news,” she says, and the three of them look at her expectantly as she sighs, “He is alive and breathing on his own — even the injuries that I can actually see through the cracks are healing bit by bit, he may have some accelerated healing on his own, or by some medical improvement, which is the good news,” she pauses then, biting her lip as she decides what to actually _do_ , “The bad news is that, left in the state it is in now, the armor, or casing, or whatever that is, is going to kill him, and we have nothing even close to that level of technology on the planet to fix it, which leaves us with the alternative of getting him _out_ of the armor.”

“What’s the catch?” Jon asks, and Melissa tilts her head to the side, considering.

“I’m not sure he’s fully human, or fully… whatever race he might have been before that armor was put on and sealed. It’s disconnected, as far as I can tell, from his own body by now, probably too damaged to keep on working, but it is still infused in some parts of his body, and removing it might damage him, or kill him altogether.”

Jon is quiet at that, and Lydia looks like she’s also trying to think of a solution, but Jakh-Sin is frowning.

“Why do we care?” he asks, and the other three turn to him in unison. He shrugs and crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively, but not backing down, “We have no idea who he is, or what he was doing when his ship crashed. He could have been headed here for an attack, or he might be running from the Jedi or the Separatists — neither of which is good for us. Why do we care? Why are we bothering to try and save him?”

Melissa has to stop for a second and consider this because she honestly _doesn’t know why_. It just never occurred to her _not_ to help someone when she could, but now that Jakh-Sin asks, she doesn’t know why.

“We don’t need to have a reason to help people, son,” Chief Stilinski says, and the nikto doesn’t look satisfied with that answer — and Melissa understands him, she really does.

Jakh-Sin had been a mercenary when he arrived in Kalee for trade and refuel and met Lydia Martin — he fell in love with her and never left. That, however, might have been the only romantic act he has ever done in his entire life, because he was raised in a ferocious culture, much like the Kaleesh — their main difference, however, is that the Kaleesh fought for honor and glory. They did it so that when they died, they would become gods, like all great warriors of their race did.

Jakh-Sin’s people believed in fighting for their own gain, to live well on this life, because they had no belief for the beyond. They didn’t believe in the Force, or gods, or honor — they fought to survive and nothing else.

Helping someone just to help them isn’t something he’s likely to understand.

“We must help him because if he is a threat, he’ll be in no condition to respond, and so we can gather more information before an actual attack comes. And if he’s a friendly, he’ll owe us his very life, and we can do with more allies nowadays,” Lydia tells her fiancé, and only then does the nikto nod, seemingly convinced.

A match made in heaven those two.

“So, what do we need to get that armor off him?” Jon asks, and Melissa considers it for a moment.

“We are going to have to break it apart, little by little. I might need some help in there, if you’re willing?” he asks the man, and he nods promptly.

“I’ll help too,” Lydia offers, already getting up and proceeding to the prep-room to wash her hands, and the Chief follows her.

“I’ll stay here and keep watch,” Jakh-Sin tells them, “In case this _is_ an attack and the rest of… whatever that thing is is coming for us.”

Melissa shakes her head briefly, but follows along to the prep-room, and soon they are prying the pieces of armor out of the body. They start on his legs, which seem to be the ones less damaged by whatever fire he had been set on, and then move along to his arms, and then his back where the burning made a strange marking like a triskele right in the middle of it.

They are careful as they work — Lydia and Jon work in tandem to clean and dress the wounds left by Melissa as she pries the armor off piece by piece.

His chest is where there’s more damage than anywhere else, but it still looks less terrible when they finally manage to take apart the chest piece that had been sizzling with tiny sparks every few minutes. The complicated machinery there seems to indicate that some of it was helping the body underneath survive, but as his vitals continue stable for the whole process, she has to admit she’s a bit confused by the whole thing.

It’s dawn when they finally get to his faceplate, and Melissa is tired as she can never remember ever being before — her arms ache with the effort of prying apart the armor, having to apply brute force and tenderness in equal measures. Carefully, they tear apart the back of it first, revealing thick, almost fur-like hair, dark as a starless night. His ears, Melissa can see now, are almost pointy, something she’s seen countless times in Kaleesh all over the planet.

As she pries apart the armor around his chin, revealing a strong, square jaw covered in beard, the familiar shape gives her pause, and she looks up to see Jon Stilinski staring at her with the same thought in his eyes.

She touches the last piece of the faceplate slowly, dreading and hoping at once, and pulls it off, carefully and ever so slowly.

Underneath the piece of armor is a young face — younger than it should have been, at any rate. The square jaw, and the thick eyebrows. Eyes closed, for the time being, but she knows that, when he opens them, it’ll be electric blue that’ll meet her own.

She and Jon look at each other again, not even daring to breathe, and it’s Lydia who finally voices the name they have all been thinking.

“Hale.”

**X**

They should have seen it coming — well, that is not completely true: in a way, they _did_ see it coming, they just didn’t want to believe it, and now it’s too late.

Too damn late to do anything — it’s too late to even dare hope.

Looking up into the eyes of the Knight he has never trusted, Deaton realizes he did this wrong — he did it all wrong, and he has no way of ever setting things right again, ever.

He is going to die — blast, at this rate, all Jedi are going to die before day’s end, and they are the ones to blame for it.

The Master Jedi can sense the strike before it comes, but it makes no difference: he’s too weakened by the battle, too tired by the internal struggle he himself is facing against the dark side.

As the Force push hits him, sending him crashing out the window, he knows his final seconds of peace, and he wishes — he wishes they had done things differently.

He wishes.

Until he wishes no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Come tell me what you think of it.](http://darkjan.tumblr.com/)


	12. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is almost doooooooooooooone *freaks out*

Stiles’s whole world goes cold for a second, and he has to stop in his tracks lest he falls down with the force of the impact the feeling has on his body — Scott, who is closest to him, frowns in worry and goes back a few paces, hand already out to steady him, but the sensation is gone as abruptly as it came.

He shudders and looks around, feeling out of balance suddenly, and not really knowing why.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, and he nods, still frowning.

“Yes, I just…” He can’t go on, his throat closing with an immense sense of loss that he cannot explain. The Jedi just shakes his head and takes one step forward, and another one, and then another, as the other man stares at him, waiting either for an explanation or for him to collapse completely — he does neither, just keeps on walking, trying to find his center again in the Force.

It’s as if a part of him is suddenly missing, he decides, after a few minutes wondering as they thread the dense jungle of Felucia. Something which had always been there is suddenly gone, and he does not know what could possibly have caused this — he didn’t even feel like this when he had lost Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka.

He decides to ponder on the whys of his sudden malady later and instead inspects his little group as best as he can — the ten troopers who came with them are about fifty feet ahead in various directions, scouting as best as they can, with the four Jedi plus ARC Scott coming behind them. Ma’Som and Liam don’t have their cloaks with them anymore, having given them to two of the other troopers who stayed behind for the staged attack on Kali’s forces. They are talking quietly, and Stiles smiles a bit, sensing an easy bond forming between the two of them, and he’s glad for it.

He’s good at war, and he’s a good general, of that he is well aware, and so he and Liam had always been off-world, always at the fronts instead of at the Temple, where the boy could make friends with other Jedi closer to his age. Instead, his best friends are Stiles himself, and he is well aware he doesn’t really count, for he is responsible for Liam, and Scott, who is much too old, and much too focused on his own work to do a proper job of being just a friend. He learns from them, certainly, but they are in no way fit to be his _friends_. It isn’t the job of a Master to be his padawan’s friend — at least, not while he is still his padawan — it’s his job to teach, and protect, and guide him to the best of his abilities. For years, he had envied the easy camaraderie between Mordred and Merlin and he used to wonder if he had been the one to become Mordred’s padawan they would have had that too, but now he sees they wouldn’t. Mordred had been barely more than a padawan himself when he took Merlin as his apprentice, and Stiles has a hard time even considering that nowadays, thinking of his own first years as Knight, and thinking of how much harder it would have been if he had had someone he had to take care of back then. He barely even felt he was ready for it _now_ , and he has been teaching Liam for a year, has stopped being a padawan for seven, has been fighting in this war for ten.

Focusing back on the track, he turns when one of the troopers approaches from the West, the cadent pattern of his footsteps announcing his hurried arrival.

“General,” the troopers greets, stopping in front of Stiles who nods at him to continue — no matter how long he works with the troopers, it will never stop being strange hearing the same voice (and yet not quite) coming out of every one of them, “the western path is a no-go. There are super battle droids patrolling the roads, and it’s too close to one of the villages. We’ll have to keep to Southeast to get to the complex without being seen.”

Stiles wants to strangle something in frustration, but he can’t — the western path would be shorter, and they’d be at the complex in the next two hours or so, but they risked a hundred men’s lives for the chance of an ambush, and now they have to pay the price.

“Following that path will take half a day, at the very least,” Liam says, his voice tinged with the smallest bit of complaint, and Stiles empathizes, he really does, but there’s nothing they can do.

“We continue on. Better to take longer but be sure that we are actually using stealth to our advantage,” he states, and Da’n’yy and Scott nod along. He turns back to the trooper, “Keep patrolling around us. Anything goes wrong, anyone approaches, you let us know.”

The trooper salutes him and leaves, his camouflaged uniform blending in and disappearing among the trees and giant fungi.

“And we keep on marching,” he says, trying for a cheerful voice, but Liam, way too used to his attempts at joking to be bothered, just rolls his eyes.

“Oh, the joy,” the kid mutters, and Stiles smiles a bit, as Scott snorts.

“Come on, young padawan, you could use the exercise after all those days in Coruscant, sleeping till noon, doing nothing all day.”

“I’m sorry, Master, I think you’re mistaking me for yourself, who spent half our time there sleeping.”

“Lies and slander,” Stiles tells him, and the kids snorts too, but he’s walking with a little more enthusiasm this time, which seems to spread to Ma’Som, who follows Liam, and they talk quietly as they walk.

Master Da’n’yy sighs beside him, and Stiles turns to him in concern, but the anzat is fine now, the lingering effects of the drugs having dissipated hours before.

“I wish I had this way you have with your padawan. I swear half the time Ma’Som only does what I tell him to because he’s afraid I’ll eat him.”

“It is an honest fear,” Stiles says with a straight face, getting an annoyed look from Da’n’yy, but he smiles at the other man as Scott tries to disguise a laugh as a cough, “Liam makes it easy. It helps he’s my first padawan, and that I’m only ten years older than him — my little experience is a blessing in that respect,” he shrugs, “I haven’t been around for long enough to have a reputation at the Temple, so he doesn’t have to feel intimidated.”

“You were Master Deaton’s padawan, were you not?” Da’n’yy asks, and Stiles nods in agreement. The other Jedi nods too, as if this confirms some theory of his, “It must have been hard, keeping up to such high expectations.”

“It’s harder to keep defending myself from the rumors that I’m going evil, to be honest,” Stiles says honestly, and it startles a chuckle out of the other Jedi. He smirks, knowing that the other Master probably has no idea what Stiles is talking about, “I am not, just for the record. And Master Deaton is a good Master — he taught me everything he could, and I’m grateful for having been his student.”

“He is a fine Master, indeed,” Da’n’yy agrees, “And you are wrong that you don’t have a reputation,” the anzat continues, and Stiles glances at him, prompting him to continue, “The story of your Trial by battle spread through the Temple like wildfire, Master Stiles. We all heard the story of how you jumped off the walls of Pelek Baw to rescue Master Jen-Fer after she leaped. How you took the planet back, and brooked the peace accord again in that world.”

“I did not do all that,” he starts, but Scott harrumphes by his side.

“You did, and I was there. Master Deaton may have been the one who spoke to the public, but you talked to the Argents, and you made Christopher see reason before the end. Take a compliment when it is due, General,” his friend says, but Stiles shakes his head.

“I was doing my duties as a Jedi. We do not take pride in battles,” he states, and Da’n’yy again only inclines his head before speaking quietly, almost as if he doesn’t think they’ll hear it.

“Yet it is the only thing left for us to take pride in, it seems.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, keeping his eyes ahead, where Liam and Ma’Som are walking, and he hopes again for a better future when those padawans won’t have to keep on fighting, and he can teach Liam about peace and harmony, about the Force and its will, and not battle strategies and stealth.

Maybe they can take pride in hoping too, they seem to do it just as much as fighting these days.

**X**

He breathes.

He knows he’s been in and out of consciousness for hours, and yet, it feels as if he’s more alive now, on this hospital bed, than he has been in years.

He breathes.

As soon as he’s aware he’s alive, he breathes, feeling the air in and out of his lungs in an almost burning sensation, and he basks in it, because it may be painful, but he _feels_.

So many years, so much time, so, so long without _feeling_ , and why?

Or better yet, _how_?

He’s vaguely aware that he did make it to Kalee, that he is where he set out to be — and exactly as he remembers leaving it: hanging onto life by a thread, lying on a hospital bed half undone, fighting for every breath.

He’s come full circle, and he feels like crying for it — he can’t, though, not now, not yet.

He hasn’t had the time to think himself through, to understand what’s happened to him, to see some logic in what he’s been through.

So far, he _feels_ , and it’s almost enough. He _feels_ , _physically_ : he hurts, and aches, and burns in every muscle of his body, on every inch of his skin. In his soul, however, all he has is this disconnection between who he is now, who he had been, what he’s become.

He’s no General, that is for certain — not Grievous, and certainly not Hale: he’s Derek, and still unsure of what that can possibly mean now, after everything.

He hasn’t opened his eyes yet — he’s not brave enough to do it. He’s too afraid he’ll have visual proof that he’s been dreaming, and he can’t bear for this freedom not to be permanent, not yet. Even his desperation to be free feels out of place, because he can’t, for the life of him, place _where_ he wasn’t free. He can’t understand properly _what_ had restrained him so, and yet he knows he wasn’t himself, he wasn’t a person, a kaleesh, he was nothing, and yet he was himself.

The sound of a door opening startles him out of his desperation loop, and he breathes in the scent — something he hasn’t felt in so many years, but he would recognize it anywhere, and he does try to overcome his fears to open his eyes this once.

Carefully, he blinks them open once, and has to close them again, because it feels _strange_ , to have the light so close, his vision so… normal. So much like it used to be before — before something. Before whatever it is that makes him feel as if his whole life stopped the second someone took him out of Kalee all those years ago. He tries again and, little by little, he can see a face he knows so well, and he lets out a small sigh: not quite contentment, but close enough.

“Melissa,” he whispers, and he can see the woman smile at him carefully, hopefully, wiping away a tear on her face.

“Oh, Derek. I’m so glad you’re awake. We didn’t know if you would…” she starts, but doesn’t say what he knows she’s thinking: that they didn’t know if he’d live.

He tries for a small smile, but can’t quite manage to do it — it’s as if his whole face, his whole body, has forgotten to emote, to express what he is feeling. He’s never been very good at it, but this _impediment_ feels unnatural, and it’s one more thing he has to ponder on what he’s sure will be a lengthy recovery.

Carefully, Melissa checks his bandages and his wounds, making small, pleased sounds, and trying to keep him calm — he wants to tell her he’s fine, that he’s grateful enough for being home. He wants to tell her that, even if he dies right now, he’ll at least die in his own home, with his own people.

“You seem to be healing well,” she tells him after a few minutes, and he blinks slowly at her, grateful for it, even if he would have been fine with not making it. He’s made his peace with it, he thinks, a long time ago. She seems a bit troubled when she stares into his eyes, but smiles all the same, a hand coming to wipe the hair off his forehead for a second, and he can’t help but close his eyes again — he can’t remember, even _before_ all the things he cannot remember now, even _before_ the accident who took him from his people, he can’t remember the last time someone touched him with no malice, no ill-intent. Probably the two children he carried out of the Huk freighter so long ago, clinging to him more in fear than comfort.

 She caresses his forehead once again, and quietly leaves. His breathing gets easier and calmer, and soon he falls asleep again, knowing he _is_ home.

He is finally home.

**X**

“How is he?” Chief Stilinski asks as soon as Melissa gets to his office in the government building, and she tilts her head a bit, considering his question carefully.

“I’m hopeful regarding his physical recovery. He is healing well, his Kaleesh blood is helping it along faster than if he were human,” she pauses, thinking her words through carefully, “ _Physically_ , he is fine. He will be fine. Most of his cuts and wounds from the armor fusion are already closed, the scars are still there, but even that will fade in time. My only concern are his eyes, but from all the tests I’ve done, he can see well enough — it’s only a matter of time, of waiting, to see if he’ll have any other side-effects from whatever that armor was,” she sighs tiredly, and sits to the Chief’s right, talking more quietly now, “It’s his state of mind I’m worried about. I don’t like agreeing with Jakh-Sin on many things, but this once he might have a point. He was taken from here by the Separatists, we all assumed he died when he didn’t come back, and now he’s back in literal pieces? Where has he been all these years?”

Chief Stilinski doesn’t seem to want to think on that for too long, but he, too, sighs tiredly and scratches his forehead, as if trying to physically keep away such thoughts.

“I don’t know, Melissa. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s happened to him — we all know he swore to defend this planet and its people, but war changes people. I don’t want to think he changed his mind and went against the Republic, but…” he stops talking, and Melissa only nods in answer, because she fears it too.

“I don’t think it matters, one way or another,” the Chief continues after a few more moments of silence, and Melissa turns to stare at him in question, “He’s back. Whether he was a prisoner or a warrior, if he turned on the Republic, or was fighting against the Seps, it doesn’t matter now, because he’s back here. He came back home, and we can’t dwell on the past when the future is ahead of us.”

She snorts quietly, but nods anyway — it is quite controversial that the man who still keeps his son’s room the same way for over twenty years, the man who still wears his wedding band on his finger, and his wife’s on a necklace around his neck, to say they should focus on the future and let go of the past, but she nods anyway, leaving him alone in the room, and heading home.

In her opinion, it doesn’t really matter what’s happened in Derek’s past, so long as he is willing to make a better future for them.

**X**

Lydia is a very smart woman, and no one who spends more than ten seconds around her would dare say otherwise.

It isn’t her good looks that made Cheif Stilinski choose her to start training to take over when he retires in a few years — it also isn’t the fact that she’s the only one who _could_ , seeing as anyone else who’s her age isn’t from Kalee, because of the massacre — it’s just that she is smart, and cunning, and she will make a good leader when the time comes.

As the future leader that she is, she doesn’t trust the whole thing with Derek Hale.

She remembers him, of course, how could she not?

Her only friend holding her hand the whole way back to Kalee, how General Hale had taken the two of them out of the Huk ship, leaving the bodies of all the other children behind. How broken the man had looked for weeks after Stiles had been taken, how she, herself, sometimes could only sleep at night because she knew General Hale was out there, looking out for them. He had been her hero for a very long time, the one who she thought would save them all, who would help them, even when they had little food, and little trade, and her father left in search of a better life for them and never came back, leaving her and her mother behind.

However, she grew up, and she understands how the world works a little better now — and the way it works is that there are no heroes, there are no good people left. Not the Jedi, not the Army, not even even the Chief, not even Melissa — not even herself, to be completely honest.

There are only people who think about others too, before they make their decisions. There are only people who are slightly better at feeling empathy for others before doing the best for themselves, and there’s nothing wrong with it — that is how you stay alive, and that is a lesson she learned when she was five, and all her friends died or were taken away.

For a long time she hadn’t understood why they hadn’t joined the Separatists in their fights, hadn’t understood why they hadn’t come knocking on their door more often — Kalee might be a poor planet, but their warriors were fierce, and never gave up. As time went by, she understood that it had something to do with the dealings General Hale had with a bank, and, after he disappeared, very few people came to their planet at all, and no one cared who they supported or not, as long as they got their jobs done. To so many people, it seemed like a natural progression, but for Lydia, something always felt a little off with that — why is Kalee left alone in the middle of a raging war? She watches the Holonet, she listens to the traders when they come, and no one fighting seems to care how poor a planet is, or how much they’ve gone through before taking it over, and making them join one side or another, and yet, Kalee has been left alone for over ten years.

A part of her thinks this has something to do with Stiles.

For years, she hadn’t known where he stood with the Jedi, hadn’t even known if he had survived their training, if he was anyone important in the Republic, and then she saw the images of the battle in Haruun Kal, saw the footage of the kid she had played with fighting as if he was one with the weapon in his hand, face serious and grave. A quick shot of him in front of the rubble that had once been the government center of that planet, blood on his face, but determination in his eyes. She remembers being twenty, and even with all the troubles they faced, she was a child — she cared about boys, about school, about being grounded by her mother for disobeying her. Stiles, in those few images, looked like a warrior.

No one who looked that brave in the face of battle would _not_ be important, and so, for her, that is what settled that matter: Kalee was left alone by the Republic because Stiles made it so. He remembers them, he keeps them safe as he would have done if he had stayed to become Chief after his father.

So maybe she doesn’t believe in the Jedi, but she does believe in her friend, even now that the public opinion is almost unanimously against them. She believes in Stiles.

That, however, solves the mystery of why the _Republic_ hasn’t come for them, but the Separatists?

What was their excuse?

She walks quietly to Hale’s room in the hospital — everything is quiet, and she knows Melissa has just gone home, so no one will bother her. Stepping in carefully, she stares at the man on the bed, and takes in his appearance: most of the burns he had shown before are gone now, so he clearly continues on being as much of a Kaleesh as he had always been. His ears are more like a human’s now, though, less pointed, and more round, as if someone had cut them off and remade them in a more humanly shape. His hairline too is changed, less prominent, less wolfish and more human — looking at him carefully, it seems as if someone tried to remodel their old General into a human before covering all of him with that dreadful armor he had arrived in.

The pieces of the thing are still in a corner of the room, probably because Melissa decided to keep them there for Derek, if he wants to do something with it when he’s fully recovered.

She checks that Hale is still sleeping before approaching the heap of broken armor and looks through it, careful not to make noise — the black material is lighter than it looks, but just as solid. There are pieces of red fabric, or something that _looks_ like fabric, stuck in between dents of the armor, and she touches it carefully, not expecting the small zap of electricity to go through it. Lydia drops it quickly, eyes going to the bed, where Derek hasn’t yet moved.

They don’t have much in the means of technology in Kalee, the very basic so they aren’t completely cut off from the world, and everything they do have is at least five years behind any planet with even a slightly better standing, and at least twenty to what they have in the Inner Rim, but she doesn’t think just anyone would have that kind of armor, that kind of tech at their disposal. Derek Hale, when he had been taken, was at death’s door. He was pretty much dead already, which is the only reason Chief Stilinski had allowed the Separatist leader to take him in the first place: because this had been their only hope. This man on the bed, remade and reshaped, covered in materials she has never even heard about, isn’t _just_ their General Derek Hale come back form the dead.

This is something else.

Her hands hover over the armor for a few more seconds, before she turns around and, with a last look to the man on the bed, she leaves.

The matter of why the Separatists hadn’t come after them had always bothered her and the Chief.

Maybe now, having Hale back with them, they’d finally have an answer. All they have to do is wait for him to get better.

**X**

At some point, Scott goes to make company to Ma’Som and Liam, leaving the two Jedi masters behind.

“I’m sorry about Alis-Sen and Eri-Ka, I know they were your friends,” Da’n’yy says after a few moments, and Stiles nods, not trusting his voice to speak, something in him stirring again with that cold dread he had felt a few moments before.

“Did you know them well?” he asks, once it’s clear the anzat won’t say anything else, and the silence starts getting uncomfortable. Da’n’yy nods slightly, eyes ahead scouting the path, finding Ma’Som easily.

“I worked with Alis-Sen a few times, she showed promise as a Sentinel. Good with security — it was mostly what we did together, before the war,” he pauses for a moment, his bluish, pale complexion looking sickly with the neon glow around them, “I never thought this would happen. I’ve lived in the Temple for longer than most, and I’ve trained as a Jedi for as long as I can remember, and I never thought we’d come to this, to being soldiers, and generals, ordering clone troopers around, and learning our way around weaponry other than our lightsabers. I don’t think I spent more than an hour a day training to fight before all of this started — the attack on Geonosis, that first battle, I remember seeing all the Guardians rushing out, and thinking ‘I’m lucky I don’t have to go’.” He stops talking, looking somber and hopeless, and Stiles understands that more than most.

“I’ve always trained to be a Guardian, and even I didn’t see any of this coming,” he pauses, looks at their padawans walking ahead, talking quietly between themselves, Scott ahead with them, making them laugh at something he’s saying, and lowers his voice, because this isn’t something his padawan needs to hear, “I remember my homeland. Very little of it, but I do. I come from war, Master Da’n’yy, from death and destruction. When I got to Coruscant, Master Mordred and Master Morgana told me I’d be helping keep the peace. I guess not even they could see this path coming.”

They walk quietly for a few more seconds, and Da’n’yy glances at him and away before speaking again.

“Everyone knows how you arrived at the Temple, most of us didn’t like it one bit,” he chuckles quietly when he sees Stiles straightening his back to defend his right to be trained, and quickly speaks again, “Oh, not that you had come — I remember you as a child, anyone with an ounce of the Force in them could see you’d make a fine Jedi with the proper training, even though some of us thought you were too old, and you came, as you yourself said, from war and death. But that is not why we disliked the notion that you had been brought into the Temple, but the _why_. Deaton, Gaius, and Nimueh wouldn’t have thought it was a good idea to bring you in if they didn’t want to control your planet even more. Part of the reason to bring you in was, of course, your talent, and you haven’t disappointed — if Merlin wasn’t around, I do believe you’d be the prodigy at the Temple — but the other reason was political. It was scheming, and controlling, and taking a child as leverage, and that is not the Jedi way… Or it didn’t use to be.”

“Sometimes I feel that the war isn’t what is changing the Jedi,” he starts carefully — he is already under suspicion of being a traitor, a Dark Side sympathizer, maybe even a Sith, but he can’t help saying these words, because what Da’n’yy says is true, and has been for a long time, “I feel like the change was already there for a long time, losing our focus, what we mean to the Galaxy, what the Republic means to everyone else. Something is deeply wrong with all of this, and I’m not sure any of us can fix it.”

“According to some, Merlin is the chosen one. Maybe he will,” Da’n’yy’s tone is mocking, and Stiles chuckles.

“I don’t believe a single person can do much to change everything — I do believe everyone has to do their own part, and work together to bring real change to the world,” the other Master nods, agreeing, and Stiles goes on, eyes ahead on their padawans, the future of their Order, “It’s why I haven’t given up, why I keep fighting even though I long since stopped seeing the point in it: because I believe one day, _they_ ,” he nods towards the two boys, “will keep the Peace as they should, as Jedi and not warriors. I believe in it.”

Master Da’n’yy sighs loudly, but nods.

“That is something nice to believe in, better than some prophecy no one really knows. Better than believing a single person will change it all.”

Stiles shrugs, tired of the walking, and the fighting, and the talk, still feeling out of sorts.

“We all need to believe in something, that’s what I choose to believe in: a better future.”

“To a better future,” Da’n’yy repeats, as if in a quiet cheer, and they continue on marching, quietly, side by side.

It’s quiet and beautiful in Felucia, but Stiles can feel unease everywhere he turns.

It’s as if they are in the eye of a storm, and he can’t really help it but be afraid of what will come when it really hits.


	13. Order 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Order 66.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand the last one.
> 
> I'm sorry.
> 
> (Btw, I'd really like to recommend that you guys read it with the songs that go with the chapter. It's better that way. <3 )

ARC Scott’s comlink goes off and he takes three steps to the side to answer it.

“ _Execute Order 66_.”

“It will be done, my Lord.”

His response is automatic and easy — simple, as obeying all programming is.

It’s almost as if his hand has a life of its own — it takes out his blaster, and aims it straight at the doneer child, and he fires once.

It hits, perfect aim at such close distance, and in the same move he aims at Liam — a part of him, bigger than any trooper should have, wants to stop. A part of him screams _this is Liam, this is as much your trainee as he is Stiles’s padawan_ , but it doesn’t stop his hand from pulling the trigger once more.

Another fatal wound, another death, another mission accomplished.

It’s so fast, so unexpected, _so easy_ , that Scott is actually a bit surprised.

The hum of a lightsaber makes him turn quickly, and fire again — twice now, just to be certain. The Anzat falls, robes tainted by the blast, burned fabric and blood, and he takes one single step to his left, aim perfect for the last Jedi’s head.

And then he stops — he _has_ to stop, because Stiles, the only Jedi to ever treat him like a person, the only one to ever look at him like an individual, has his lightsaber out and horror in his eyes — but his friend doesn’t attack.

Scott realizes, something breaking free in him, something giving way to his normal self, to the person he has become after such a long time fighting with this man, that Stiles hasn’t attacked him, hasn’t killed him, because Scott is _his friend_.

Scott killed his padawan, his Order brothers, and Stiles stays his hand — because Stiles looks and sees _a person_. Not a copy of a human programmed to do someone’s bidding, but a person, an individual, and that is all Scott needs to be himself again and realize the horror, the terror, the hideousness of his actions that aren’t even fully his.

“Run, Stiles,” he tells the man, his voice a whisper, scared and terrified of what it’s clear he has to do, because even though they die by the thousands for the Republic, death still scares him, “Don’t trust anyone — _run_.”

One last blaster shot ends it.

He hopes it’s worth it.

**X**

It takes twelve seconds for Stiles’s world to fall apart around him, crash and burn like all the children from his home planet dying around him, and now he has no one to come and save him.

Twelve second and five shots.

He sees it all, you see, he _sees it_.

Scott moving slightly away to answer to his comm, the one they use for private communication to the other Troopers and their Coruscant base. He _sees_ his face going slack and strange, as if he is not himself for a moment, and he _sees, he sees_ his best friend, the only one he feels like he has left, taking out his blaster and killing the child they’ve barely rescued.

He _sees Scott_ , the one person who’s been with him, the only one left — the only one he thought he could trust with anything, shooting Liam.

His Liam, his child, his padawan.

The one person he is responsible for — dead, at the hands of his best friend, his teacher, his companion. The horror he feels makes him too shocked to answer, and Da’n’yy, still slower than normal, hesitant in using his Anzat powers because of the poison still in his system, advances on Scott, and Scott kills him too.

That breaks him out of his stupor, and his weapon is in his hand, but — what is he going to do?

Kill Scott?

The man has killed the very last person who meant anything to him, and now, what is he supposed to do, eliminate his best friend too?

He can’t.

Eyes still wide in shock, he takes a shaking breath and tries to take a step forward, but he can’t — _he can’t_.

Not only because Scott is his friend, his companion, but because he needs to know _why_.

Scott, horror on his face, terror in his eyes, stops too — he doesn’t lower his weapon, but he doesn’t shoot.

“Run, Stiles,” his voice is a warning, almost a threat in its fierceness, “Don’t trust anyone,” he tells him, looking scared and afraid, and so terribly, terribly sorry, “ _Run._ ”

His final whisper makes Stiles move, but it’s already too late — Scott shoots himself right over the heart, and Stiles lets the lightsaber fall from his hand as he looks around: they are all dead.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he approaches the body of his student — blue eyes still open, staring unblinkingly at the Felucian sky. His knees give out on him, and he falls, hands shaking, afraid to touch Liam — to know, for sure, that he is gone.

The tear in his robes is telling enough that it was a fatal wound — gone in a second, not even knowing why.

Stiles doesn’t know either.

He can’t breathe for a moment, hand hovering over Liam’s body, but he makes himself check for vitals, his body still warm, still confused, still betrayed, face forever locked in a terrified gasp at seeing his new friend killed in cold blood, for no apparent reason, for nothing more than a single call on a comlink.

His hands are shaking — it isn’t all that surprising, all of him is.

Not taking his hands off Liam, he looks to the side, where Ma’Som is lying face down on the ground, and he feels his stomach turn.

Heaving, he pushes away from his padawan, and stumbles onto Scott. Onto Da’n’yy. They are all around him — death all around him, following him like a shadow he can never escape.

He doesn’t cry, doesn’t throw up, doesn’t move for a second — he can’t.

What happened? What is happening at all, what is this? This death, this darkness, his best friend killing everyone, killing _himself_ , and for what? So he wouldn’t have to face Stiles?

So he wouldn’t have to kill him?

What is happening?

Fear grips at his heart, and he feels sick in his stomach.

And then it hits: a thousand different screams of agony go through him — a thousand different voices yelling and dying and suffering. Hundreds and hundreds of souls confused in loss and despair and nothingness. This, whatever this is, this madness, this insanity, it isn’t just Scott — it isn’t just them, he can feel it — the Force screams in agony for the death of thousands of its children. For a second it’s as if nothing else exists in the Galaxy but pain and fear and hatred, and Stiles closes his eyes, trying to get his bearings again, to catch his breath.

The sound of footsteps approaching breaks him out of his agony, and he realizes he’s kneeling on the ground, such pain wrecking his body he can barely feel his legs, and his head blaring in opposition to keeping his eyes open in the purest pain, but up he goes.

Trembling fingers grab at his fallen weapon blindly, and he tries to move, as quietly as he can, away.

He has to run, he has to hide — every single instinct he has tells him he needs to get out, get off, get away from here.

 _Scott_ told him he had to run.

That he couldn’t trust anyone — not even Scott, apparently.

He takes a single step away, and turns back — how can he leave them? Their bodies, lying on the ground, everything they had?

He goes back, kneels beside Liam and wishes they had allowed their students to keep something _from them_ on their person, but he has nothing — not a memento, not a single thing.

Jedi discourage attachment, after all, why would they allow their padawans to grow attached to things?

He grabs Liam’s lightsaber, and then he hears, the artificial sound of coms, the beeping of the troopers’ armor, and he freezes on the spot, searching the direction where the sound came from.

What had once meant peace, and rescue, and support, and help, now spells horror in his soul, and he steels himself for whatever is coming.

He doesn’t know who he’s fighting anymore. He doesn’t know who is on his side — if he even has one anymore.

Scott died _for_ him, he refuses to die at the hands of anyone else this day.

Ten troopers. There are ten troopers nearby, ten who could become an immediate problem, ten he has to contend with if he is to have any kind of chance of escaping this planet at all.

It’s easy to leave all thoughts of loss, and fear, and despair behind when he has a tangible enemy to fight, because fighting is easier than feeling.

The first trooper is the one who, only hours before, had come to warn them of their change in routes to get to their enemies’ main headquarter — Stiles doesn’t think twice about waving a hand at him, throwing the trooper against a giant fungus, his neck snapping with the force of the impact with a sickening crack.

He gets up, his own lightsaber at the ready when four more soldiers come into his line of sight, blasters already out and firing. Stiles leaps out of the way, and when he falls, Liam’s lightsaber comes alive too, slicing through both hands of the closets trooper, who falls with an agonized shout through his mask. The other three shoot at him in tandem, but he redirects the shots easily, gracefully, fighting as he always has — another troopers falls to his own shot fired back at him, and Stiles keeps moving his weapons, never stopping, his years practicing _Soresu_ coming to him easily: evade and attack only when the opponent leaves an opening, tire them out while running from the shots, fight back when they tire, attack when they make a mistake. He knows this, trained this on every single day of his years as a Padawan, and a Knight, and a Master, and it is an easy form, for him, to fall on — and then other three troopers come closer from the tress, and one of them steps on Liam, in his haste in getting to Stiles.

As a Jedi, lower feelings, such as anger, and hatred, and jealousy, are supposed to be eliminated from his life. He is meant to let go of all of it, and focus only on the Force, on the light side of it all — Stiles is a good Jedi, he knows it, the whole Order knows it, but this, this last disrespect to his fallen student, the closest thing he’ll ever have to a brother, to a son, it fills him with a form of _rage_ he doesn’t think he has ever felt before.

Without even having to think, his movements change, and he is now attacking rather than evading — he knows right now he will no longer maim and incapacitate, he is going in for the kill, and if this makes him a bad Jedi or a terrible teacher, it matters not, for he no longer has a student, and his Order, he knows deep in his soul, is lost to him. His face is a mask of calm when he dives in straight in front of a trooper, and with a fast move cuts off his head before turning halfway through a leap, and tearing one of troopers armor right through the chest with Liam’s sky-blue blade.

The last three troopers who were missing don’t come as close as the others had when they approach the clearing, they stay behind, shooting at him, expecting him to escape from their shots and wait, but he doesn’t — with a fast leap he comes after them, using his size to his advantage, being taller than the clones, striking one of them in the chest with a push of the Force to help him along, turning quickly, and kicking the legs of the second, using his fall to strike his neck.

The lights of his weapon are a blur around him as he redirects the blaster shots that come raining upon him, indigo and sky blue mixing together in his fast movements, pushing forward all along, until he is close enough to pull apart the blaster in the hands of a trooper, sending it flying into a tree, and then he pulls the trooper himself with a wave of his hand, his own lightsaber cutting through the man’s neck when he is close enough.

Even with the slaughter, the last two clones don’t give up, and one of them comes running at Stiles, changing the tactic of only shooting at him, probably expecting him to be caught off guard, but Stiles isn’t, because he _is_ the focus on his fighting, he _is_ the blade cutting through armor and flesh alike — he had never expected the _Juyo_ form to serve him well, never expected to be able to fight with this instant lethal intention in his strikes, the Ferocity Form always sounded a bit too much for him, but not now — not with his friend dead, and his padawan gone. Not with this sense of absolute loss still ringing within him, when he doesn’t even know why.

The last trooper manages to get a shot on his arm, and he goes down for a second on a bent knee, deceiving his opponent, before leaping straight up when the man makes to approach him. He comes down forcefully, his whole weight focusing on the blow, two blades together in his grip, diving straight through the clone’s skull — and it is over.

It’s over.

For a second he just stands there, lightsabers still humming in his hands, ready to attack, and then he realizes it’s all over.

The floor around him is covered in blood: the troopers’, Da’n’yy’s, Ma’Som’s, Liam’s, Scott’s — even his own from the few blows he suffered and didn’t even notice. It’s over.

He feels it in his soul, in his core, as definite as the fourteen bodies around him, that it is over — this is the end of something he can’t even begin to comprehend, because it’s just too big for him to parse through when he still can’t understand what is right in front of him, let alone what could possibly be happening far away, in a hundred different planets.

The weapons fall from his hand again, and he breathes in and out deeply, trying to come to terms with his, all of this — Scott killing everyone only to stop at him, and Stiles himself descending to the depths of violence, and killing ten troopers, ten _people_ in a matter of minutes.

Maybe his former Master is right in not trusting him at all, maybe this is what so many other Jedi saw in him when they avoided his gaze in his last few days at the Temple: mindless killing with the calm of a practiced murderer.

He looks around, eyes falling onto Liam and Scott, so close to each other, and he goes to them slowly, staring for a long moment, unmoving.

How is he supposed to let them pass when he doesn’t understand why they’re gone?

How is he supposed to obey the will of the Force when he can barely feel it around him anymore?

Reaching out slowly, he closes Liam’s eyes with a soft touch, holding onto one of his padawan’s hand and squeezing it tightly, refusing to break down and cry here — he refuses.

He won’t cry, or mourn, or let them go until he has an explanation for this, a reason for this pain, for all these lives cut short.

Raising up again slowly, he takes the two lightsabers and puts them away in his robes. Swallowing dry, he waves his hand at the trees and fungi around him, shaking them until leaves and moss and lichen alike come around the four bodies he’s focuses on, and set on them, covering their forms in a mockery of a tomb.

May they rest on the Force, for Stiles can’t.

He won’t rest until he has answers for all this tragedy and pain.

**X**

Across the galaxy, not all are as lucky as Stiles — not all have Scott to die for them.

Few escape the first wave of killings, and those who do, hide.

Even fewer will survive in the long run: the Jedi will be hunted down and slaughtered by the thousands, not only by the Troopers, but by people who blame them for the war, who believe their new Emperor, and think they brought the downfall of their Republic. Their Order, their name, everything they stand for turns to dust, and blood, and sand, and dirt — the Jedi are condemned and damned in this new order, under this new guidance.

Across every known system, in every house, in every corner, the message is the same: the Jedi are a dangerous race, and must be destroyed, lest they destroy everyone else in their pursuit for power and control.

The Emperor tells of horrors committed in the name of peace, and the killing they carried out with no mercy — he doesn’t tell of the children slaughtered by a hand they thought they could trust in their own Temple. He doesn’t tell of the shots fired at their backs, when they couldn’t respond. Of lives lost before they could truly begin. Of the seven-year-old boys and girls dying when trying to defend their younger friends.

None of that goes to the Holonet, none of that spreads around like wildfire — but some people… Some people know.

Some people watch, and they see, and they know Darkness when it is coming, no matter under what name, and they watch, and they wait.

Darkness has come to the Galaxy as it hasn’t in a thousand years, but they hope — hope is what makes a single Jedi escape to fight another day, hope is what takes padawans to find each other and hide, in secret, planning their next step. Hope is what guides so many lives to their right paths, even though they don’t know it yet.

Darkness scares, and it is strange, and cold, but it can’t hold back hope, for hope is quiet, and strong, and adaptable.

Darkness may cast a shadow over it all, but hope can wait — and as soon as opportunity arrives, hope flourishes, because that is what it _does_ : it hides, until some _one_ , some _thing_ , no matter how small or how broken, how lost or afraid, believes in it just enough to make it ignite.

Hope brings back the light, even if it has to wait.

Hope knows patience, and that is why it never dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it for now!
> 
> I'll be back with the sequel - it's already more than halfway done, I just have about four or five chapters to finish before revising and posting it - by the end of January at the latest.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading it, and for your support as I posted this.
> 
> See you soon in Echoes of War. <3

**Author's Note:**

> [Come tell me what you think of it on Tumblr <3 ](http://darkjan.tumblr.com/)


End file.
